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. ■ ; ■ ^ '■ \\ 

THE .j. , • 

New York Fashion Bazar3 

THE BEST AMERICAH HOME MAGAZINE. 

l»rice a5 Cents per C«»py: per Year. 


The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress 
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can be had. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 



" . ' -ix 

The most ordinary cause of a single life is liberty, especially in certain 
self-pleasing and humorous minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, 
as they will go near to think their girdles and garters to be bonds and 
shackles. — Bacon’s Essay on Marriage and Single Life, 





NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 


My dear Lady Morgan,—! am induced both by your friend- 
ship and your genius, to present you with this “ airy nothing.” The 
/ criticism of great talents is always gentle, and an offering dictated 
by sentiments of affection is safe from scrutiny into its intrinsic 
^ value. You will not slight even this trifle, but accept it graciously 
foi the sake of . . 

THE AUTHOR. 

28th September, 1847. 


THE BACHELOE OF THE ALBANY. 


' CHAPTER 1. 

The sense to value riches, with the art 
T’ enjoy them, and the virtue to impart, 

Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued. 

Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude: 

To balance fortune by a just expense. 

Join with economy, magnificence: 

With splendor charity, with plenty health: 

O, teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil’d by wealth ! 

That secret rare, between th’ extremes to move. 

Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love. 

Pope’s Epistles. 

Spread, Harrowsmith & Co. — Picture of a fine Family — The Kev. 
JVlr, Owlet — Character of Mr. Spread — The Model House ia 
Abercromby Square — The Spreadlings — The celebrated Mrs. 
Martin — Revolutions of Mrs. Spread’s Nursery — Miss Stanley, 
the Church-woman — Miss Pickering, the Jobber. 

Not very many years back, there existed, at Liverpool, the opu- 
lent mercantile firm of Spread, Nairowsmith, and Company. No 
account of their transactions or ehterprises is necessary, as with 
their commercial history, the sailings and returns of their argosies, 
we have nothing to do. 

It is notin the estate of poverty alone that men become acquainted 
With “ strange bed-fellows.” There never sat two men, on oppo- 
site sides of the same desk, of characters so utterly at variance as 
Mr. Spread and his partner. Antonio w^as not more unlike Shy- 
lock. The former realized your ideal — indeed, almost the dramatic 
conception of a British merchant, familiar to playwrights, and 
cheered by the galleries: generous, enlightened, independent, up- 
right in all his dealings, as unostentatious as he was bounteous ia 
his charities. The other had the acquisitive pn peusities, without 
the liberal spirit of commerce; a man of sordid principles, and who 
acted up to them; miserly and pitiful, hard and grasping as a vise, 
a man to squeeze a pippin, or skin a flint, who, to save one six- 
pence, would do a shabby action, and to make another would do 
something shabbier still. To this respectable personage was united, 
in unholy wedlock, a woman with whom he was as fitly yoked as 
ever a husband was to a wife. Mrs. Narrowsmtth was just the 
consort, for a Harpagon or a Gripus; she saved canrlles’-ends, 
pinclied her servants, wrangled about kitchen-stufif. dyed her 
gowns, turned her petticoats, darned her carpets, outdid Ovid’s 
Metamorphoses with an old coat or a tarnished curtifin, and never 


4 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

allowed a fire in her house (except the nominal one for culinary 
uses) from the first breath of May till the first gale of November. 
But. enough of the Narrowsmiths for the present. W e shall meet 
them again, and oftener than it is agreeable to meet people like 

them. r M j 1 

It is not to be supposed that between such a family and the 
amiable and worthy Spreads there subsisted any cordial intimacy. 
The thing was out of the question. Independently of the strange 
and objectionable people who composed such society as the Narrow- 
smiths cultivated, the bare sight of Mrs. Narrowsmith would make 
Mrs. Spread and her daughters shudder; in warm weather Mr. 
Spread used pleasantly to wish himj-elf in his partner’s kitchen; a 
dinner in Rodney Street was the heaviest penalty that could have 
been inflicted upon the comfortable people of Abercromby Square, 
and the next punishment— in point of severity— was the necessity 
of returning the entertainment. This excruciating interchange of 
civilities seldom, however, took place more than once a year; the 
wonder was how the Narrowsmiths ever made up their minds to 
give their annual bad dinner, and it was no less surprising how the 
Spreads survived to return it with a good one. 

Family pictures are generally dull affairs, but we must give a 
sketch of the Spreads, and it will be altogether the artist’s fault if it 
is not a pleasing one, for they were both physically and morally a 
“ fine family,” and all over the world, although Byron said it tvith 
a sneer, such a family is a ‘‘ fine thing.” 

“ Places aux dames ! ” In the foreground stands the tall, comely 
figure of the mother of the family; her cheek still blooms, though 
her summer is nearly over; her form tends to luxuriance, her 
features are radiant with intelligence and benignity. . Her hair is 
fair and abundant, her eye mild and gray, her voice soft and dis- 
tinct, her mien dignified, her deportment quiet. She looks as if 
she loved books, music, pictures, flowers. Her tastes are obvi- 
ously healthy and elegant, her mind pure and strong; her heart 
full of all the womanly afl:ections, one of those rare prizes in the 
matrimonial lottery not always drawn by men who deserve them 
as well as Mr. Spread did. 

The eldest daughter, Augusta, was very nearly the fae-simile of 
what her mother had teen in her girlhood. The same height, the 
same style of figure, saving the matronly exuberances; her hair 
perhaps a shade darker; but she had her mother’s firm and grace- 
ful deportment exactly, and as to their voices it was next to im- 
possible, notwithstanding the disparity of years, to distinguish them 
asunder. Elizabeth, the second, was both shorter and plumper. 
Her hair was nearly black; her voice a tone or two deeper than her 
sister’s, and perhaps just a little husky, but not disagreeably so; 
her cheeK was pale, unless when exercise, gayety, or other excite- 
ment flushed it. One quality she had, for which some blamed, and 
some commended her, she was remarkably still and silent- few be- 
yond her own family knew the extent or her information or the 
worth of her character. Of a religious family, she was the mem- 
ber who made religious subjects most her study and her care; but 
the milk-white hind, the type of Catholicity, was more her favorite 
than the panther, the emblem of Church-of-Englandism. Elizabeth 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 5 

was on her way to Rome, and had just performed half the journey, 
tor she had reached —Oxford ! 

And here we must let the reader into a little piece of secret his- 
tory, that is to say, it was a secret to all the world except the 
Spreads themselves, and one individual more. Elizabeth was 
affianced to a young clergyman of the .name of Owlet, a fellow — . 
and an odd fellow— of Baliol, and a minor canon of Salisbury. 
Owlet was a man of much learnine:, eccentric habits, and Puseyilical 
opinions. He doted on the dark ages, indeed was so fond of ob- 
scruity that he was hardly ever seen or known to be abroad except 
in the twilight. He was particularly bent upon reviving the Mys- 
tery Plays and Moralities, and had quarreled with his dean for ob- 
jecting to the dramatic representation of the story of Balaam in his 
cathedral. With Mr. Spread’s strong sense of the ridiculous, he 
could not but smile at the absurditi^ of his contemplaterl son-in- 
law; but, with all those absurdities. Owlet had gained the affec- 
tions of his daughter, and as he had also made a conquest of a 
tractarian peeress, who had a snug living in her gift, and had 
promised to bestow it upon him, Mr. Spread saw no reason tor op- 
posing a union on which the hearts of the principal parties were 
resolutely bent. The reverend gentleman was to be inducted into 
his benefice in a few months, and it was settled that the wedding 
should take place immediately afterward. 

Mr. Spread was one of the freshest and handsomest men of fifty 
in England. His complexion was florid, his nose aquiline, his chin 
double, nay, triple; a perpetual pleasantry seemed to be playing 
about his mouth, and he had that kind of an eye that seems to be 
always looking out for somebody to do a service to, or something 
to say a gay or good-natured thing of. In person, he was of con- 
siderable volume, but the protuberance was not a parte ante, as 
in the aldermanic and episcopal conformations; he carried fiis 
head erect, and at the same time somewhat advanced, so that his 
figure had a slight resemblance to a crescent, with the convexity 
behind, and this perhaps was the reason that he began to carry a 
cane long before his limbs were conscious of any diminution of 
their vigor and elasticity. The manners of Mr. Spread were a little 
formal, slightly Graudisonian and Sir Rogerish. For a moment 
you thought him pompous, but directly he smiled or talked, the 
amenity of his eye or the hilarity of his voice entirely removed the 
impression. He dressed well, with a tendency to the fashions gone 
by rather than to the modes of the day. For instance, he always 
appeared in a white cravat, and never wore a frock-coat, or carried 
his watch in his waistcoat pocket. To these few personal delails 
we have only to add that he was short-sighted, and wore a ponder- 
ous double eye-glass, resolvable into a pair of spectacles, and pend- 
ent from his neck by a gold chain of corresponding massiveness. 

Mr. Spread was a model of a man .of business; activity without 
bustle, dispatch without hurry, form without punctilio, order with- 
out rigidness, dexterity without craft, vigilance without suspicion. 
Business inundated without overwhelming him, and care neither 
corroded his mind nor sat on his brow. It was wonderful with 
what perfect serenity and ease heuianagedthemultiplicity of affairs, 
private and public, in which he either was involved of necessity, or 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 


6 

spotaneously engaged himself. He felt, as every man ought to feel» 
that he had duties outside his counting-house, and obligations to 
society, as well as to his wife and children. He never shrunk from 
any of the responsibilities of life; he was a magistrate, a juror, an 
elector, and at one time had, at a great personal inconvenience, even 
consented to go into parliament, because the constituency of a large 
manufacturing town insisted upon having him to represent them, 
and his refusal to gratify their wishes would have endangered the 
success of the liberal interest. Then, if a relation or an old school- 
fellow desired to name him as his executor, or was anxious that, 
after his decease, Mr. Spread should be the legal guardian, .as well 
as the hereditary friend of his children, to refuse to act in either 
capacity would have been utterly foreign to his character. Nor 
was this all; he was (perhaps Mrs. Spread had helped to make him 
so) a lover of literature and art, forever ready to aid with his purse, 
and, what was to him still more valuable, his lime, in the establish- 
ment or diiection of any society or institution calculated to advance 
science, or diffuse exalted tastes. and steilins: information through 
the country. Of giving his countenance to benevolent undertakings, 
he was more chary; he haled the false philanthropy that creates dis- 
tress with one hand while it relieves it with the other; he objected 
to paying Paul out of the robbery of Peter; held that there was no 
more difiicult problem than to help the poor without sowing the 
seeds of pauperism; but, of all things, what he most deprecated in 
disposing of the funds at our command for charitable uses, was 
their investment in sentimental speculations or romantic schemes to 
make bad Christians of Gypsies or Jews, confer the blessings of 
episcopacy upon the South Sea Islanders, or discover the lost tribes 
ot Israel in the tents of the Calmuc Tartars. He thought that there 
was ignorance and irreligion enough at our own doors to employ 
both our purses and our' piety; and that the home department of 
England and Ireland ought to be tolerably well administered, both 
in civil and ecclesiastical affairs, before it could be our duty to inter- 
fere either in the secular or the spiritual concerns of Madagascar or 
Tahiti. 

There was but one son, and his name was Philip; he reminded 
some people of his father, some more of his motlier. He was of an 
ardent and volatile temperament— studious by fits and starts; now 
a paroxysm of study, now a collapse into utter inactivity. He took 
up a subject, pursued it keenly for a week, then dropped it forever. 
He had read a good deal inconseculively and superficially. Some- 
times his rage was for science, French mathematics, German 
metaphysics ;^botany to-day, geology to-morfow. There was not a 
lillle juvenile coxcombry about him; he had a knack ot picking up 
languages, and was a lillle too fond of parading his acquaintance 
wtih foreign tongues, when plain English would have served his 
turn. The excuse for him .was, that he was very young, and cer- 
tainly one ought not to be hard upon the faults of youth, when they 
leaii to the side of letters, as those of Philip did; besidesr he iii- 
herited his father’s softness ot disposition and sterling worth. Every 
body W'as fond of him, and he was particularly a favorite with 
women. Your very shrewd women would certainly smile at his un- 
seasonable displays ot learning, and your fastidious women would 


THE BACIIELOK OF THE ALBANY. 


7 

ridicule his little provincial gaiiclieries; but he was a general 
favorite notwithstanding, and unfortunately he was only too sus- 
ceptible of the tender impressions made by the fair sex. His life 
was a series of little desultory attachments, or tlirtations, for he was 
as volage in love as he was in literature, and changed his beauties as 
often as his books. • 

The house of the Spreads was a model house; not a model of 
splendor and luxury, but of respectability and comfort. It was the 
freshest, warmest, brightest, airiest, cleanliest, snuggest house that 
ever you set your foot in. The defects of its light were those of 
the climate; and if its atmosphere was not always the purest, its 
corruptions were chargeable upon the general atmosphere of Liver- 
pool. It was obvious at a glance that good sense and correct taste 
were the regulating principles of all the household arrangements. 
You could have inferred the mind in the drawing-room from the 
order in the kitchen; and argued, from the cook or the house-maid, 
up to Mrs. Spread herself. There is nothing more characteristic of 
the residences of people of true refinement than what may be called 
harmony of style; offices in the ratio of the house; servants enough, 
and no more; liveries, equipages, plate, furniture, decorations, all 
in keeping with each other, and adjusted to the proprietor’s rank 
and fortune. The Spreads understood this perfectly; they were free 
from the two vulgarities of wealth — superfluity and display; a quiet 
elegance and a liberal economy distinguished their establishment in 
all its departments. 1 hen those departments never came into col- 
lision; there was no confusion of jurisdictions, or clash of offices: 
there was a place for ever^dhing, and everything was m its, pkice. 
The butler did not groom the horses, nor did the groom open the 
wine; the cook never made the beds, the house-maids never dressed 
the dinner; the kitchen did not intrude into the hall, and the nursery 
was nevei known to invade the parlor. 

• Tlie mention of the nursery reminds us that a notice of the junior 
branches of the family has very improperly heeu omitted. There is 
nothing small to the eye of philosophy, and that of history ought not 
to be more disdainful. There were ISpreadlings as well as Spreads; 
by no means insignificant members of the household, and the more 
to be respected because the}'- did not “ come in alter dinner.” There 
was an octonarian, named Theodore; and the two minims of the fair 
sex — Katherine, a demure little hussy, and Maria, who was more a 
tomboy; both promised to be pretty, and as they were brought up 
in rigid habits of veracity, ihe reader will be so Isind as to presume 
that tliey kept their word. They were now undergoing, in common 
with their small brother, all the educational processes of the age, 
under the energetic direction of the celebrated Mrs. Martin, author 
of a work on the “ Godmothers of England,” a lady eminent for 
her skill in mastering young mistresses and governessing young 
masters. It need hardly be stated that, in a family like the Spreads, 
the instructress and ruler of iheir children occupied no degrading 
situation. So far was Mrs. Spread from requiring her either to malve 
oi to mend the clothes of her pupils, that she would infinitely sooner 
have performed these, or any other menial offices herself, than im- 
posed them on IMrs. Alartin, who, indeed, was not a lady who would 
have brooked a treatment derogatory to her state and dignity. 


8 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


Mrs. Spread’s nursery had passed, as greater states do, under a 
succession of administrations: there had been “ all the talents ” and 
“all the follies;” alternately a Queen Log and a Queen Stork. 
There had been one or two “ shave beggars,” ladies who undertook 
to teach before they had been taught themselves, and to learn to 
rule at thefcost of their pupils and their parents. But the most re- 
markable governments were those of Miss Stanley and Miss Picker- 
ing. The former thought of nothing but the church and the church- 
catechism; it was church, church, church, from Monday to Sunday, 
and from Sunday back again to Monday. She corrected her pupils 
with the collects and punished them with the Psalms. She was so 
thorough a churchwoman that she would have upset a kingdom, 
not to say a nursery, to maintain even a church-mouse. At length 
Mrs. Spread had good reason to suspect that, out of respect for the 
ordinances of the church, Miss Stanley must have been privately 
married, for she became as ladies wish to be who love their lords, 
when they have lords to love; and in the fullness of time (but not in 
Abercromby Square) was this exemplary churchwoman in a con- 
dition to be churched herself. Whether she w’as or not is another 
question. 

Miss Pickering had a great many good points about her; active, 
useful, clever, a great deal too clever— that was her weak side; she 
jobbed a little in books and stationery, and was convicted of pecula- 
tion in the children’s wardrobe. After she had been cashiered for 
these malfeasances, it turned out that she was the daughter of an 
Irish gentleman who had, in his time, been treasurer of his country, 
which accounted, to Mr. Spread’s satisfaction, for the proficiency of 
his progeny in the art and mystery of jobbing. 


CHAPTER II. 

O rus, quando e^ro te aspiciam? Quandoque licebit. 

Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno, et inertibus horis, 

Ducere solicitae jucunda oblivia vitae. 

Horace. 

Dissolution of the Firm — Mr. Spread’s Motives — Passion for Rural 
Lite — Mr. Spread’s Parliamentary Habits — A Domestic Parlia- 
ment— Who constituted the Upper House — Portrait of j\lis. 
Martin — Breakfast Talk on Bees — Philip Spread upon Insect- 
Geometry— Triumph of the Country Party— Regrets of the 
Mother of the Family. 

About the period when this story commences, a measure was in 
agitation of no less importance than the dissolution of the mercantile 
firm mentioned in the last chapter The desire for this change orig- 
inated with Mr. Spread. In the first place, he had realized an ample 
income, with what he considered a sufficient provision for his wife 
and children. He was no millionaire, nor was it his ambition to be 
so; satisfied to live and move in the temperate zone of life, equally 
removed from the frigid and the torrid, the extremes of poverty and 
affiuence. Money thus having always been with him, an object 
only desirable with a view to its rational expenditure, not intrinsic- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 


9 


ally entitled to his hoina<>:e and devotion, why was he to protract 
his commercial life beyond the periol when (his moderate aim bav- 
ins been successful) his tastes prompted, and his duty permitted 
him, to withdraw from the pursuits ot trade? Other considerations, 
possibly, also mtluenced him. The character of his partner was so 
utterly uncongenial with his own as to lead to frequent differences, 
if not collisions, between them, more frequent than Mr.^ Spread 
could reconcile either with his notions of the efficiency of a'mercan- 
tile company, or with his personal repose, which essentially depend- 
ed upon his being in peace and harmony with every one about him. 
Besides, a passion for rural life had for several years been spring- 
ing up, by small degrees, in the several members ol his family. 
Civilization has two contrary movements; its first impulse is out of 
the woods townward, turning swains into citizens and burghers; its 
second direction is back to the woods and fields, changing the citi- 
zen into the swain again. For a considerable time the rural pro- 
pensities of the merchant’s household' checked by the necessities of 
their position, discovered themselves only in a little speculative chat 
at dinner, or a day dreamy dialogue at breakfast. Whether or not 
the tall Augusta and the plump Elizabeth, after retreating to their 
pillows, prattled rnore puellarum about myrtles and roses of their 
own planting — whether or not they built picturesque cottages in the 
ail, and stocked ideal greenhouses with flowers ot all hues from 
the luxuriant nurseries of fancy, is ot course only known to the 
syiplis of their bed-chamber, or the fays that sentineled their bower. 
The sentiment, however, was of old growth, and when the time 
came for indulging, or at least expressing it freely, it seemed (as is 
often observed in the progress of public opinion) to start into life a 
full-grown feeling, past debate, and ripe for legislation. • 

What, indeed, is there to attach any man to a place like Liver- 
pool, after he has retired from the docks, and bid a long farewell to 
the counting-house! When a merchant has completed his career in 
a large manufacturing or commercial town, he ought to leave it at 
his earliest convenience, for a town of that description is one of the 
most incommodious places in the world for a man to saunter about 
in, with his hands in his pockets, let them be replenished never so 
well. As long as you move in any of the great thoroughfares of 
life, at the same rate with other people, you proceed smoothly and 
agreeably enough; but diminish your speed, and you experience a 
shock directly; stand still, and the next instant you are jostled and 
perhaps flung into the mire. It is one of those laws that are com- 
mon to intellectual and physical movement. It will neither do to 
bustle on fashionable promenades or lounge in the resorts of business. 

We have mentioned that Mr. Spread sat in parliament at one 
period the representative of a borough constituency in Lancashire. 
He occupied the seat only so long as he felt it to be his public duty 
to retain it; it materially interfered with his private affairs, and he 
could ill brook the long separation from his family which the con- 
scientious discharge of his senatorial functions involved. In fact, 
he was essentially a family man, wlio was never at home in clubs, 
and could not domesticate himself in hotels or lodgings.. While he 
continued, however, in the House of Commons, there was no more 
assiduous or zealous member in that miscellaneous assembly ; and 


10 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 

when he withdrew fiom it, he had become so attached to its torms 
and usages, that he carried some of them away with him into retire- 
ment, and adopted the playful practice in his family, when the case 
was onothat allowed of it, of considerimr his wife and children as a 
little senate, formally putting the question to them, and deciding it 
in one way or the other, by a majority of votes: sometimes, in 
minor matters, even taking the suffrages of the little estates of the 
nursery, which (not, perhaps, without a satiric touch intended for 
the Chamber of l^eers) he (lesignated the Upper House. 

An instance of this pleasant usage, which occurred in relation to 
the change of life which Mr. Spread contemplated making, as soon 
as his commercial career should terminate, affords a fair opportunity 
, for introducing the reader into the bosom of this worthy family. 

They were assembled one morning in full Witenagemote, with 
their good looks and their good appetites; the breakfast-table laugh- 
ing with china and silver, the sideboard covered with manly fare, 
and a glorious fire bouncing and blazing on the hearth, for it was 
the decline and fall of the year; and at the hour of nine on a.No- 
vember morning, in England, the sun in all his glory is not to be 
compared to sea-coal. 

Mis. Martin was sitting there in her wonted place of honor, as 
stately and important as if she was the mater -familias herself. Mr. 
Spread paid her profound respect, not unmixed with gallant atten- 
tions, at which Mrs. Spread would now and then affect to be very 
much piqued indeed. Mrs. Martin was a woman to command re- 
spect, and not too old, let me tell you, to inspire sentiments, also, of 
a gayer description. She was not handsome, but handsome enough; 
middle-aged and middle-sized, a pair of vigilant black eyes, the very 
eyes tor a school-room, a voluble delivery, an animated and per- 
emptory manner, altogether a woman admirably qualified for the 
office she held, except, perhaps, that she was a little too fond of 
theory and system-building.. She w^as attired in dark -green silk; a 
small lace cap, whiclmeither concealed nor was intended to conceal 
her black hair, enhanced the dignity of her aspect; the red cashmere 
shawl over her shoulders was a present from Mrs. Spread, and had 
cost more guineas than governesses in other houses receive for a 
year’s stipend. 

Mr. Spread, having amply discussed some Scotch haddock, and 
reviewed several marmalades, without dipping into them (no un- 
common practice with reviewers of other things), desired his son to 
hand him the honey, quoting at the same time (for he was wont to 
be classical at breakfast) a line from the Georgies of Virgil, on the 
subject of the bee’s confectionery. 

“ It is odd,” said Philip, ” that Milton should haveomitted honey 
among the dishes wdiich Eve serves up to the angel Raphael, at the 
f^xBifete champetre of which We have any record.” 

” Milton bore the bees a grudge,” said Mr. Spread, “ on account 
of their monarchical form of government.” 

” 1 suspect,” said Mrs. Spread, ” it was r'ather because the mon- 
archy goes in ihe, female line.” 

” Milton was a misogynist,” said Philip. 

” What’s that?” inquires his father, affecting ignorance. ” What’s 
a misogynist?” 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBANY. 


11 


“ A woman-hater, sir?” 

‘‘ Then why not say woman-hater, Philipp” 

It was a slight tap, but Philip colored, and made no reply', having 
no good rep^" to make. 

“ 1 wondOT have the French bees a Salic law?” said Elizabeth. 
It was her first remark that morning, and her father patted her 
cheek and called her his ” loquacious little Bessie.” 

The bee was a favorite subject of Mis. Martin’s, and^he now ex- 
patiated upon it with her usual fluency, holding up the bee hive as 
a model school for all the virtues; and thinking, perhaps, what a 
capital queen-bee she would have made herself. 

She would certainly have made the drones stir themselves: 
whether or not she could sting, too, upon fit occasion, probably 
Tiieodore knew better than any one else. 

Philip listened rather impatiently to Mrs. Martin, as he was anx- 
ious to hold forth himself. He considered the bee as an architect 
and a geometer, an insect Jones, or a winged Apollonius. ” As 
soon,” he added, with consideiable pomposity, ” as soon as we have 
bees of our own, 1 shall prepare a paper tor the British Association 
on the mathematics of entomology.” 

‘‘ That’s the fourth paper, Philip, love,” said his mother, ” that 
you have pledged yourself to prepare for the British Association; 
nousmrrons.’' 

Mrs. Martin would now have willingly gone into the subject of 
indecision of character, bat Mr. Spread anticipated her, by saying — 

” 1 doubt very much, Phil, if this house, or any house in Liver- 
pool, exactly answers the conditions which Virgii considers indis- 
pensable to an apiary.” 

‘‘Of course, 1 mean,” said Philip, ‘‘when we have got our 
maisoii de campagne. That’s a settled point, you know, sir.” 

‘‘Is it, indeed?” said the amiable father, doing his best to Iqok 
mysterious and doubtful. 

‘‘Settled, papa,” said Augusta and Elizabeth, simultaneously, 
each laying her hand on one of his shoulders, while she spoke. 

A charming picture it would have made — that fine benevolent 
gentleman, the worthiest of all the sons of British commerce, seated 
at his generous breakfast, radiant with pleasantry and goodness, 
between these two lovely and beloved daughters cherished by their 
aftecfion, and exulting in their beauty. 

” Somewhat precipitate legislation, girls,” he replied,, trying to 
look cold as William Pitt, while he glowed with the ardor of 
Charles James Fox— ‘‘ Precipitate legislation,” he repeated, for it 
was his habit to reiterate his words, when he was particularly 
tickled by any fancy, or when any phrase that he used pleased him. 

“ The law of the land,” cried Philip. 

‘‘ Don’t leave us, Mrs. Martin.” The hour had come for the re- 
sunjption of that lady’s scholastic duties, and she had risen to re- 
tire, surrounded by her vassals, with the dignity of a princess 
royal. ‘‘You are one of the states of the realm— ay, and 1 dare 
say upon this occasion those little sluts of the shire — and you, too, 
Master Theodore, will expect to be allowed to vote.” 

‘‘ The villa, the villa!” cried the representatives of the nursery, 
with one accord. 


12 THE BACHELOK OE THE ALBAHY. 

“A trio ot facetious urchins, ” said Mr. Spread, “ wliat,^ if la 
reine s'aviseraf 1 should like to hear what ihe queen says.” 

” 1 suppose 1 ought to act the patriot queen,” said Mrs. Spread 
cravely, ” and identify myself with the feeling of my people.” 

' ” Vive la reirw!" cried Ihe who’e little senate, and in a few min- 
utes its several members were dispersed in boudoirs, studies, and 
school-rooms over the whole house. The faintest audible sigh es- 
caped from the charming mother, in the midst of the acclamations 
of her children; and while she contemplated their enthusiastic faces 
with maternal rapture, a slight shade of feeling, related to regret, 
tor an instant eclipsed her countenance. In the bustle of rising from 
the bieakfast- table, neither was the sigh noted noi the eclipse ob- 
served, save by the quick ear and vigilant eye of conjugal affection. 
Her husband knew, with the divination of love, what was passing 
through her mind. 

She was thinking of the many happy days she had passed in 
Liverpool, the place where she had first known and so long enjoyed 
the complicated and unutterable happiness of a wife and a mother. 
She did not disapprove of the change of residence that was now 
formally resolved on, but she could not quit, without a pang, the 
house that was hallowed by so many sweet remembrances; it 
seemed almost ingratitude to talk with levity of leaving Aber- 
cromby Square. 

We have been very happy here',” she said, with her hand locked 
in her husband’s. 

‘‘ We have— we have been happy— very happy, my love,” he re- 
plied. with deep feeling. 

A tear stood in Mrs. Spread’s eye; another gushed to that of her 
husband; it was drop answering drop; that lucid language, which, 
as the Attic historian so beautifully expresses it, is ” common to sor- 
row and to joy. ” 

The Spreads were, indeed, a happy family — happy in the pleas- 
ures of memory, happy in the pleasures of hope and imagination 
also; but happier still in hopes not to be disappointed, and imagin- 
ings destined to be realized. 

CHAPTER 111. 

I have often thought those noble pairs and examples of friendship not so 
truly histories of what had been, as fictions of what should be; but I now per- 
ceive nothing in them but possibilities, nor anything in the heroic examples 
which methinks I could not perform within the narrow compass of myself. — 
Religio Medici. 

Friendships of Mr. Spread— Mr. Barker the Bachelor of the Albany 
—His Intellectual Character — His Three Hatreds— Whether Mr. 
Barker had a Heart or not— Approach of Christmas — Prepara- 
tions for it in Liverpool— Old Mrs. Briscoe— The Smyly Girls 
—Mr. St. Leger — Mr. Spread called to London — What the 
Junior Spreads thought of Mr. Barker — Speculations on his 
Coming- Philip Spread’s Inconstancy, and Sudden Devotion 
to Astronomy. 

There are men in the world, and not unarniable men either, who 
have no friends. They attach themselves to their wives, their chil- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


13 


dren, to a nepliew, perhaps, or a niece; but, out ot the domestic 
circle, they have nobody to take the moiety of a care oft their 
shoulders, or double the enjoyment of an hour’s sunshine. Mr. 
Spread was so far from being one of those isolated men, that, on 
the contrary, he rejoiced in a plurality of friendships, and plumed 
himself on being an Achilles with more than one Patroclus to 
buckle on nis armor for the fieht, or to relax with after the engage- 
ments ot business and the conflicts of the world. But if there was 
one friend in the troop who was more decidedly an alter ego than 
the rest, it was a certain Mr. Barker, a man of much worth and 
more eccentricity, who was now growing gray in a small set of 
chambers in the Albany, where he led the life of a bachelor and a 
cynic, attended by a single servant, frequenting society chiefly to 
pick quarrels with it, and never extending his visits or progresses 
five miles beyond Piccadilly, except when his friend, Mr. Spread, 
prevailed upon him to pass a Christmas or an Easter at Liverpool. 
Mr. Barker was one of the privileged men of the sphere he moved in. 
He was eccentric by license, and his tongue had a charter. Possess- 
ing an income of some twelve or fifteen hundred a year, he plumed 
himself upon escaping the trammels and responsibilities of life. He 
had few intimate friends, and Mr. Spread 'was at the top of the 
short list. Barker would have had more friendships it he had been 
mo»-e tolerant and less crotchety ; but he rarely curbed his humor, 
and when he was in his perverse vein spared nobody that crossed 
his path. He had a dry, sharp logic for the people he chose to 
reason with, but when he despised an opponent, he disembarrassed 
himself of him, or tried to do so, with the first sophism that came 
to his hand. Of all the forms of opposition he loved contradiction 
most, and his great delight was to involve his adversary in the syl- 
logistic difficult 3 " called a dilemma. Barker rejoiced in paradox, 
and had soihe odd opinion or another upon most subjects, but in a 
pugnacious mood he would attack his own most favorite tenets, if 
anybody else presumed to maintain them. He hated three things 
intensely — music, the country’', and a lap-dog. Music was, per- 
haps, what he most abhorred. He called the piano an instrument of 
torture, and thought Edward the First the best of kings, because 
he persecuted the Welsh harpers. 

Next to Mr. Barker in Spread’s affections stood Mark Upton, an 
eminent solicitor and a member of parliament. But Upton and 
Barker were no very great friends. Barker said that Upton had no 
mind, and Upton used to say that Barker had no heart. Spread was 
more disposed to concur in the former judgment than the latter. 
He never heard his friend of the Albany accused of heartlessness 
without repelling the charge warmly. 

“ He has a heart, and a sound one, only he has the folly to be 
ashamed of it. 1 love Barker. He is upright and downright, speaks 
his sentiments flatly and roundly; he hates his enemies, and tells 
them SO; he loves his friends, and says nothing about it.” 

It was now verging to the season which, in Catholic Oxford, is 
called the Feast of the Nativity, but by Protestant England is still 
named Christmas— the season of pudding and pantomimes, mince- 
pies and maudlin sentiment, blue noses and red books. Now nur- 
series were growing licentious, and the masters and mistresses ot 


14 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

seminaries— the He rods and the she-rods ot British intancy — pre- 
paring to turn their innocents loose and wild upon the world. Now 
weie "malicious bachelors puichasing small drums and tiny trum- 
pets, to present lo the children of untorl unate married men. Now 
young ladies were busily exchanging polyglots and pin-cushions, 
beautiful books and books of beauty, Olney Hymns and Chapone’s 
Letters, with cases and boxes of t-iyenty kinds. Now landlords were 
beginning to get praised in provincial papers for lowering rent 
that ought never to have been so high ; and laboring men were about 
to be compensated for a year of hunger with a single day of roast 
beef and plum pudding. Folly, in white waistcoat, was now quoting 
old songs and dreaming of new monaslaries, as if it was a whit less 
difficult to turn a modern Christmas into an ancient lule, than to 
change a lump of sea-log into a log of pine. Sensible people, on 
the contrary, content to live in their own times, and not so ravished 
as Mi. Owlet with the ages of darkness or the things thereof, were 
buttoning their coats, without a sigh for the doublets of their fa- 
thers; going to and fro upon railroads, with a decided preference of 
speed and security to robbery and romance: nay, they were dis- 
patching or meditating hospitable messages to their friends, and 
preparing for the festivities of the season, without a thought of a 
boar’s head, or a notion on the subject of mediaeval gastronomy. 

The Spreads, among others, were now beginning to discuss the 
hospitable plans which the approaching anniversary suggested: who 
were to be invited for the holidays — what were to be the amuse- 
ments— what the cheer— what mighty pies— what ample rounds— 
what cheeses of Gloucester — what hams of Yorkshire — what turkeys 
of Norfolk. Many relations had they, more friends and a still 
larger host of acquaintances. But at Christmas it was their wont 
to ask those only who had no firesides of their own round which to 
assemble at that gracious season; the waifs and strays of society, 
the solitary bachelor, the lone maiden lady, the child who had no 
parents or whose parents were too remote to allow of his return to 
their hearts and homes, at the time when “ Home! home!” is the 
universal cry through the schools of England. There was old 
Mrs. Briscoe, whom it was, indeed, very good in anybody to in- 
vite, for she had certain oddities, which made her an exceedingly 
troublesome visitor, particularly in the night season. There were 
Adelaide and Laura Smyly, clever, handsome, laughing girls, with 
no fortunes but their high spirits and good looks — orphans, twins, 
so exceedingly like each other, that people were always calling Ade- 
laide Laura, and Laura Adelaide; and Mr. Philip bpread was un- 
able to fall in love with one without falling in love with the other 
also. Then there was Mr. St. Leger, a young Irishman in Mr. 
Spread’s counting-house, who had nevei any great fancy for a trip 
in the depth of winter to the coast of Kerry, where his father lived. 

As to Mr. Owlet, his presence was a matter of course, when he 
was not engaged more piously elsewhere, composing a tract, restor- 
ing a church, hunting for relics, founding a monastery, or reviving 
some enlightened usage or frolicsome institution of the twelfth and 
thirteenth centuries. Mr. Barker, too, was always welcome, but 
then it was not always an easy matter to prevail upon Mr. Barker to 
come. As to Mark XIjDton, he was always up to his eyes and ears in 


15 


- THE BACHELOE OF THE ALBANY. 

professional or parliamentary business; always preparing bills or 
composing blue-books. Nobody ever thought of asking him to 
merry-makings. He was the sort of man who would discuss the 
evidence before the Andover committee in a box at the opera, Grisi 
perfoiming “ Norma or go into the question of the broad and 
narrow gauge in a gondola, or on the pass of the Grimsel. 

Upon the present occasion all the personages mentioned, except 
Upton, were to be invited. Mrs. Spread was to write to old Mis. Bris- 
coe; Miss Spread undertook the dispatch to the Smyly girls, who 
were either in London or Hampshire, and Mr Spread undertook to 
invite St. Leger, and write to Barker, whose crotchety notions of 
propriety would have made him highly indignant, had the most 
welcome communication imaginable been made through a female 
medium, when there existed a gentleman who might have been 
made the instrument of conveying it. A circumstance, however, 
occurred which varied these arrangements to a certain extent. Mr. 
Spread was suddenly called to London by an important matter of 
business requiring his immediate personal attention; there was no 
occasion, therefore, to ^vrite to BarKer— Mr. Spread would meet him 
in town, and bring him back with him for the holidays. 

“ Mmt you go yourself— you send Mr. St. Leger?” said 
Mrs. Spread, in those soft, earnest, conjugal tones of hers — think- 
ing of the time of the year, of railway accidents, of all things possi- 
ble and impossible, and always unhappy at an Pour’s separation from 
her husband. Her hand was on his shoulder as she sp(‘ke. She 
knew in her heart of hearts that he was just as reluctant to leave 
his family, even for a single day, as they were to be left by him; 
yet c-he added; 

You know you need not go yourself."* 

” 1 must, love,” was his laconic answer. 

Mr. Spread, though never ruffled by his affairs, underwent an in.- 
stant change directly his mind was occupied by any matter of busi- 
ness. The alteration was chiefly in his eye ; it lost its social sparkle, 
and took a considerate and official expression. There was evidently 
no help for it; that look said so even more distinctly than the per- 
emptory words' which it accompanied. There was nothing to be 
done but to pack his portmanteau, cover him with kisses, load him 
with commissions (trust women tor that), insist upon his return in 
three days at furthest, and order the carriage to take him to the rail- 
way station. His last words, as the train began to move, were — “ I’ll 
bring Barker back with me.” Then a storm of ‘‘ Good-by, papas,” 
rose from the platform, and followed, and still followed him, until 
the engine rushed into the tunnel, like a fire-eyed dragon into his 
cave. 

The young Spreads (it may easily be supposed) were by no means 
so fond of Mr Barker as their father was; he scolded (he girls, 
looked cross when they laughed, criticised their dress, snubbed them 
when they talked ot pictures or books, rated them for crossing their 
letters, and put them on half allowance of kisses, they were so 
afraid of giving vent to tjieir usual tenderness in the presence of so 
austere a character. Philip, too, stood in great awe of him; Barker 
checked his fopperies, interfered with his self-display, and detected 
his ignorance of books which he quoted without having taken the 


16 THE BACHELOE OF THE ALBANY. 

preliminary trouble of reading them. Nothing escaped Barker, not 
even the way he tied his cravat, or arranged his hair, which was 
generally, indeed, after the worst European models— Young France 
and iL oung Germany. 

But if Barker was bland and clement anywhere, it was with the 
Spreads. Spread possessed an influence resulting from an ancient 
friendship; but Mrs. Spread, under the guise of almost timorous 
respect, exercised a still greater ascendency over him. Although 
Barker had never had an establishment of his own, and shuddered 
at the thought of having one, no man knew better what a well-regu- 
lated house was, no man was more uncomfortable where things 
were ai sixes and sevens, or retained a more vindictive recollection 
of the annoyances occasioned by the misrule of children and mal- 
administration of a household. 

“ Do you think he will come to us, mamma?” said Elizabeth, as 
they sat round the fire after Mr. Spread’s departure, chatting ot 
their social arrangements. 

“ 1 think he will, and I hope he will,” said Mrs. Spread, with ‘ 
emphasis on the word “hope.” “Of all your papa’s friends, I 
think he loves Mr. Barker best.” 

“You may hang up your harp, Augusta, by the waters of Mer- 
sey,” said Philip. 

“ I wish Mr. Barker was married,” said one of the little girls. 

“ More extraordinary things have happened,” said Mrs. Spread. 

“ You see, Augusta, you have a chance,” saidPhilip. There was 
an old joke in the family about Augusta making a conquest of Mr. 
Barker. 

“ That would be a prize, indeed,” said Augusta; “but lam not 
so ambitious. What think you of Laura Smyly for him?” 

“ Philip says no to tflat,” says Mrs. Spread, smiling. 

“ How’ can you say so, mother,” remonstrated Philip, looking 
much piqued, “ when you know 1 am in love with Miss Marable — 
or, at all events, with Bessie Bomford?” 

There was a general laugh at this naive declaration of the fickle 
Philip; who, to escape the ridicule he had so justly earned, strode 
over to the window, and affected to take a sudden interest in the 
heavens. It was a tolerably clear evening for Liverpool, and some 
half dozen stars and fragments of constellations were just dimly 
visible in the murky firmament. He showed them Orion, and in- 
formed them that it was Cassiopoeia’s chair, pointed out the part of 
the sky where the new planet was not to be seen, assured his sisters 
that from his own researches he suspected there was still another 
planet beyond that again, and grew so eloquent on the precession of * 
the equinoxes that little Katherine, who thought he 8&id pi'ocession, 
inquired it it were as fine as the lord mayor’s show. 


THE n^CHELOK OE THE ALBAHT. 


17 


CHAPTER IV 

Why, do you see, sir, they say I am fantastical; why, tnje, I know it. and I 
pursue iny humor still, in spite of this censorious age. ’Slight, an a man should 
do nothing but what a sort of stale judgments about this town will approve in 
him, he were a sweet ass. For mine own part, so I please my own appetite, I 
am careless of what the fusty world speaks of me. Every Man out of 

his Humor. 

Mr. Spread in London — The Albany— The IJachelor’s Chambers— 
His Breakfast— His Library— The Bachelor Appears— His Per 
son, Dress, and Address — His Convivial Correspondence, and 
Comments thereon — Peeps into London Houses— The Animals’ 
Friends’ Society — Barker Oliered the Vice Presidency, and De- 
clines it — His Scheme of Life- His Odd Opinions on Winds — 
Spread’s Cowardice— Barker and Spread Paralleled. 

The business which Mr. Spread had in London was connected 
with the termination ot his mercantile careeip. Lawyers were to be 
employed, deeds were to be executed or canceled, suits instituted, 
obligations discharged, debts called in, accounts balanced, and so 
forth. Much as he delighted in Barker’s society, and great as was 
his eagerness to meet him, he deferred his visit to the Albany until 
he had first seen his friend Upton and his other professional advis- 
ers, and put his affairs in a way to a speedy and satisfactory issue. 

- Then he might have been seen, one bright, frosty forenoon, proceed- 
. ing from his lodgings in Suffolk Street, along Pall Mall, up St. 
James’s Street, and thence to his friend’s chambers, healthy in mind 
and body, handsome and well-dressed, his decent corpulence attired 
in an ample blue body-coat, with gilt buttons, his waistcoat buff, his 
trousers gray, his boots brilliant, compelled to exercise his ponder- 
ous eye-glass, but losing little that was to be seen with its assistance, 
whether a political friend dropping down to Brooke’s, a caricature of 
Lord Brougham in a shop-window, or, peradventure, a pretty 
woman on her wicked way to expend her husband’s dear-earned 
cash in shawls and ribbons at Swan and Edgar’s. 

You know the Albany— the haunt ot bachelors, or of married men 
who try to lead bachelors’ lives— the dread ot suspicious wives, the 
retreat of superannuated tops, the hospital for incurable oddities, a 
cluster of solitudes for social hermits, the home of homeless genlle- 
men, the diner-out and the diner-in, the place for the fashionable 
thrifty, the luxurious lonely, and the modish morose, the votaries of 
melancholy, and lovers of mutton-chops. He knoweth not western 
London who is a stranger to the narrow arcade of chambers that 
forms a sort of private thoroughfare between Piccadilly and Bur- 
lington Gardens, guarded at each extremity by a fierce porter, or 
man -mastiff, whose duty it is to receive letters, cards, and parcels, 
and repulse intrusive wives, disagreeable fathers, and importunate 
tradesmen. Here it is that Mr. Barker had long established his res- 
idence, or, as Mr. Spread called it, his tub. It was a small but 
complete suite of rooms, sufficient for the Cynic himself, and Rej- 


18 \ THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

nolds, his man, and arranged and furnished with a precision and 
taste rigidly baccalaurean. 

When Spread arrived, his admission was impeded for a few mo 
ments by the wary and almost repulsive demeanor of Reynolds, 
who (bnins: a new appointment) was not yet acquainted' with the 
faces of his master’s friends, and consequently insisted upon proper 
verifications before he adowed any visitor (no inatter how distin- 
guished his appearance) to enter the penetralia. Upon this occasion, 
the cautious valet required Mr. Spread’s card, and, upon receiving 
that document, proceeiied to lay it before the bachelor, who (not 
being an early riser) had not yet left his dressing-room. When Rey- 
nolds returned, it was plain, from his ffracious and respectful man- 
ner, that he had registered Mr. Spread forever at the top of his mas- 
ter’s list of friends. With the most sedulous attention, he ushered 
the worthy merchant from the little antechamber where he had left 
him standing into an inner room, where the bachelor’s breakfast 
was prepared, and a good fire blazed and chirped on the heart h.' 

Spread had time to observe the accurate organization of the apart- 
ment before Barker made his appearance. Everything was sub- 
stantial and comfortable; nothing ambitious or superfluous. The 
only article that might, perhaps, be impeached of sensuality was a 
chair, constructed and cushioned after a plan of Barker’s own, and 
placed (as Spread well knew) at a particular angle, in a particular 
position, so as to enable its occupant to enjoy the fire at the distance 
he liked best, and at the same time make use of a table on the left 
and a book-stand, containing about a hundred volumes, which stood 
upon the licht-hand side. About the position of this chair, with 
respect to those three objects, the fire, the book-stand, and the table. 
Barker was rigorous in the extreme; and the slightest derangement 
of this established order of things (the topogiaphy of the chamber) 
ruffled his serenity for hours. Keynolds w'as the only servant who 
hail ever shown that strict attention to these minute but important 
regulations which was indispensable to the bachelor’s comfort. 

The breakfast was a good one, without being lliat of a Sybarite. 
It was evidently, too, an intellectual as well as an animal repast. 
There was the egg and the newspaper; a plate of shrimps, and a 
heap of notes and letters on a small salver; muffins, marmalade, 
coffee, rolls, and a small volume in French binding, which Spread 
took up, ana found was a volume of the Provincial Letters, a book 
which was a favorite of Barker’s, because it abounded with that 
sharp, sarcastic logic which he loved to indulge in himself. The 
contents of the book-stand, indeed, were of themselves a key to tfie 
humor and intellectual habits of the bachelor. There were old 
Montaigne, Rabelais, Quevedo, Moli^re, Cervantes, Voltaire, Sterne, 
Swift, Fielding, Pope, Dryden, Paul Courier, Burton’s “ Anatomy 
of Melancholy,” Grimm’s “Memoirs,” “Walpole’s Letters,” 
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Massinger, Jolinson; very few modern books, 
except Mr. Twiss’s “ Life of Lord Eldon,” Lord Campbell’s “ Lives 
of the Chancellors,” and one or two odd volumes of Carlyle and 
Dickens (evidently none of Barker’s pets). 

The lowest shelf was assignea to the folios. A splendid edition 
ol Lucian, bound in vellum, and a good copy of “ Bayle’s Diction- 
-aiy,” were the most remarkable. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


19 


While Spread was glancing over this small librar}', several growls 
were audible trom an adjoining room, and Reynolds was continually 
passing and repassing, doing a number of petty things, wiili the air 
ot a man who carried a monarchy upon his shoulders; at length he 
seemed to be near the close of his duties as gentleman of the bed- 
chamber, and, approaching Mr. Spread, intimated to him, in a low, 
deferential tone, that he might expect to see Mr. BarkLr in a few 
seconds. 

Reynolds then cast a last anxious look at the table, made a slight 
change in the position of the volume of Pascal, which Spread had 
displaced by about half a quarter of an inch, and returned to some 
distance to wait the great event of the morning. Almost the next 
moment, a small door, between the fire-place and the window, 
opened,* and the Bachelor of the Albany issued forth. 

Imagine a small, well-made man, with a smart, compact figure, 
excessively erect, his action somewhat martial, his eye gray, cold, 
peevish, critical, and contemptuous; a mouth small and sarcastic, 
a nose long and vulpine; com.plexion a pale dry red; hair stiff and 
silvery, and evidently under the severest discipline to which brush 
and comb could subject it, with a view to its impartial distribution 
on each side of a head, which was carried so high, and with such 
an air, that it was clear that the organs of firmness, combativeness, 
and self-esteem were superbly developed. With the exception of a 
plain but rich robe-de-chambre, his morning toilet was complete; 
trousers of shepherd's plaid, seemingly made by a military tailor, 
and tightly strapped down over a pair of manifest Hoby’s, a 
double breasted cashmere waistcoat, of what mercers call the shawl 
pattern; the shirt-collar severely starched, and a little too exalted 
above a cravat of dark-blue silk, carefully folded and tied with a 
simple but an exact knot. 

The meeting was cordial. Barker unusually bland and pn^pilious. 
Spread actually overflowing with ftiendship. The bachelor inquired 
less dryl}^ than usual as to the health ot the merchant’s family, and 
then applied himself systematically to his breakfast, still e.hatting 
with his visitor about private affairs and public — the marriage of 
his daughter, the state of the funds, the frost, the corn-laws, and 
the Maynooth Grant. At length Spread, observing that Barker 
took no notice of the pile ot notes at his side, begged that he would 
make no stranger of him, but read his letters. 

“They will keep very well,’’ said the bachelor, with a peevish 
glance at the heap. 

“ 1 feel like a man of business,’’ said Spread; “ I caij do nothing 
myself until 1 have read my letters.” 

“ But I’m not a man of business,” said Barker, dryly. 

“ I fancy,” said Spread, that the greater number of the notes 
there, judging from their sizes and shapes, are addressed to you 
more as a man of pleasure. 1 should not have thought there were 
so many people in town.” 

“ The tc wn’s always full enough of disagreeable people,” growled 
Barker, lie finished his egg, and added, “lam more of a man of 
pleasure, Spread, certainly, than a man of business; but take that 
batch of notes, open them seriatim, and then read aloud ; they are 
a fair sample of the civilities daily inflicted on me, and you will see 


20 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

Low much my happiness is promoted by my correspondents on note- 
paper.” 

A. more agreeable occupation could not have been suggested to 
Spread. Accordingly, he drew the pile toward him, and opening 
the first that came to his hand, commenced reading— 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Crowder—” 

“Enough,” muttered Barker; “1 never go to aggregate meet- 
ings. The Crowders invite a party of four-and-twenty to a table 
not large enough for sixteen. Read the next. ” 

“ Sir Tnomas and Lady Broderick— dinner— ” 

“ A bad dinner, and worse company. Do you know, Spread, 1 
wish it were the custom for dinner-giving people to inclose their 
bill of fare and a list of their guests.” Barker’s mode of speaking 
when he made such observations as these was a low, voluble grunt. 

“Now% here’s something nice," said Spread, holding up a note 
on light- blue paper. “ Let us see.” 

“Mrs. Penrose — a conversazione. You won’t refuse Mrs. Pen- 
rose. 1 suppose she will have the elite of the literary world?” 

“ 1 was tool enough to go to one ot her conversaziones last year, 
and 1 had the honor ot being presented to Uncle Bunkle, Peter 
Parley, and Charlotte Elizabeth. The star of the evening was an- 
nounced as a second cousin of Mr. Pinnock?” 

“ Will you dine with the Robinsons?” 

“Robinsons! what Robinsons?” 

“ Archdeacon and Mrs. Robinson.” 

“Oh! 1 recollect—] dined with them once, two or three years 
ago; the party consisted of two mutes, three dumb-belles, and a 
Quaker. Mine was the only tongue in the room, except one in a 
turkey. The conversation was carried on by nods and signs. The 
husbands winked at their wives and the wives kicked their hus- 
bands under the table.” 

Spread laughed, and broke the last seal. 

“ Pratts.” 

“ D — n the Pratts — that’s an invitation to Reynolas, not to me.” 

“ How so?” inquired Spread. 

“ They want Reynolds' services to attend at dinner.” 

Now Spread was well acquainted with the Pratts, and knew 
them to be utterly incapable ot the meanness imputed to them. He 
was just going, in his zeal for justice, to remonstrate with his 
morose friend, when the bell of the outer door rang, and Reynolds 
came in to receive bis master’s pleasure as to the persons who were 
to be honored with, or be refused an audience. 

“ Should it be Mr. Smith, sir — ” 

“I’ll see Mr. Smith — you know him — a tall man?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the valet. 

And it was Mr. Smith. Barker proceeded to the antechamber 
to receive him, and presently Spread heard the bachelor speaking in 
his gruffest manner, obviously much exasperated by something 
that his visitor had either done or said. Then doors were opened 
abruptly and shut violently, after which succession of noises Barker 
returned in a sultry chafe, and it was some time betore Spread 
could divine the cause of his agitation. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 21 

“ Animals' friends— stupidity of servants— asses— rascals — ani- 
mals’ friends — vagabonds — vice-president — me — imagine — ” 

Spread looked as if he would like some more lucid explanation 
of what had occurred. 

“ Scoundrel! not the Mr. Smith 1 wanted to see, agent to a con- 
founded society, called the Animals’ Friends.” 

“ Wanted you to subscribe?” 

“ Wanted me to accej't the oflSce of vice-president. Imagine, 
vice-president of the xAnimals’ Friends!” 

” A very responsible office!” said Spread, with mock solemnity. 

They are going to send a deputation to the Pope, to interest his 
holiness to put down bull-baiting in Spain. You would be the 
second personage in the embassy. 

Barker was greatly moved by this little annoyance, which, how- 
ever, he had brought upon himself by the loose description he bad 
given of Mr. Smith to Reynolds. Indeed, it was generally by trifles 
of this nature that his temper was ruffled. He was a man to bear 
the serious ills of life as becomes a philosopher to bear them. To 
be sure, he was not often tried so severely, for he had no relations, 
or none that he knew of, to plague him. Either by living or dying — 
in many cases it is questionable which is the most perplexing course 
lor relations to take— no duties to discharge, or neglect, save those 
which sat very lightly upon him (as they do upon most men), that 
is to say, his duties to his country and his species; no ambition to 
be thwarted, no love to be crossed, no expectations to be disap- 
pointed. He took large, and what he considered sufficient, securities 
.against the freaks of fortune, by refusing to entangle himself iu the 
responsibilities of life; laughed, and with reason, at those who 
mingled the cup for themselves, and then complained of its bitter- 
ness; who made their own bed, and would not lie down patiently on 
it — those, for instance, who married, and bemoaned the expensive- 
ness of a wife and children; who solicited public trusts, and com- 
plained either of pubiic criticism or public ingratitude; who thrust 
themselves into parliament, and objected to committees and late 
hours; or who registered their franchises, and thought it a hardship 
to record their votes. It was the glory of Mr. Barker that he had 
neither wife nor cliild, neither a house, an office, nor a vote; he was 
dependent on nobody, and nobod was dependent on him; it was 
impossible to be more unattached than he was— impossible to have 
fewer ties, without entirely forsaking the haunts of men. 

Barker retired moodily to ex(3hange his rohe-de-chambre for the 
blue frock which was his invariable morning costume. He buttoned 
it sharply to his chin, gave his hat a somewhat belligerent cock, 
drew on a pair of white doeskin gloves, and proceeded to walk with 
Spread in the direction of the Reform Club. The wind was from 
the north-east. Spread was withered and unhappy; Barker said he 
never felt so comfortable. He took the part of the north-east, spoke 
of the south with contempt, and expressed himself disrespecthilly 
of zephyrs. At the corner of Pall Mall they separated. Spread Uav- 

* It appears from the newspapers that the respectable societ}’- in question has 
actually taken the ludicrous step alluded to by Mr. Spread. No doubt they 
found it easy enough to fill the dignified situation declined by the bachelor. 


22 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


ing first consented to take a chop with the bachelor in his chamber 
at seven. He had intended tocom.amnicate to his friend that morn- 
ine: his plans for the future, particularly his intentions to settle in 
the country, but it was too hazardous to' venture on such a ticklish 
subject while Barker was in a humor to fancy a north-easter. 

They had been noticed walking down St. James’s Street by two 
members of the House of Commons, who were w^ell acquainted with 
them both. 

“ Observe Barker and Spread,” said one; ” two characters more 
dissimilar do not exist.” 

” Barker is the most angular man I ever encountered,” said the. 
other. 

Angular!” exclaimed the first: ” he is so full of angles that to 
understand him is as difficult as taking a trigonometrical survey. 
Spread, on the contrary, has not a single corner in his mind; it is 
one of the roomiest minds 1 ever knew, yet there is not a nook in it 
tor a single crotchet, not stabling for one hobby. He was a great 
loss to the House.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy: as soon 
moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Thou wilt quarrel with 
a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because tnou hast hazel 
eyes. Thou hast quarreled with a man for coughing in the street, because he 
has wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun . — Romeo and Juliet. 

Round Tables and Square Ones — Claret and Sherry — Mr. Barker is 
excited and pugnacious— Holds up a Mirror to Mr. Spread — 
Dancing in Fetters — Barker agrees to Spend the Christmas at 
Liverpool— Energetic Aphorism of Mr. Spread — The North-east 
Wind— Mr. Spread discloses to the Bachelor bis rural Plans — 
The Bachelor’s Wrath— Observations on Contentment, and a 
Homily on Social Obligations. 

The chop was over— the dry sherry remained upon the small 
square table. Barker liked a square table. Spread preferred a 
round one. 

‘‘You don’t drink sherry?” said the bachelor. 

‘‘ Not after dinner,” said Spread. 

” Reynolds, claret!— a magnum of thirty-four.” 

” 1 love a bounteous glass,” said Spread, as Reynolds set a glass 
before him which might hold about halt a pint. 

‘‘ A magnum bottle requires a maximum glass,” said Barker. 
Particularly^” added' Spread, ” when the wine is the optimum.^' 

As he spoke he filled the goblet to the brim with the rosy liquor. 
Barker filled a smaller glass with the Amontillado. 

” 'mat’s a great wine,” said Spread, having made his first libation. 
He loved good wine, as good men have ever done, and as good men 
will ever do, without disparagement to Father Mathew. 

‘‘ I stick pretty much to sherry,” said Barker. 

‘‘You are wrong — sherry is an unsocial wine. Drink claret. 
Barker— claret is the wine to pour into the wounds of life— it is your 
dry sherry that isolates you in the world— that keeps you a bache- 
lor.” 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


23 


Its best recomrnendatiftn/' said Barker. 

“It won’t do, Barker,” said ^^pread, warming; “1 tell you it 
won’t do.” 

“You see it replied the bachelor, dryly; “sooner than 

have your cares and responsibilities upon my back, 1 would be vicar 
to Atlas, and carry the globe on my shoulders.” 

“ M.v cares, as you call them, have neither broken my constitution 
nor impaired my spirits. 1 am a gayer fellow than you. Barker — 1 
am at least ashealthy— as— ” 

“ ril tell y(ui what jou are, Spread;” and Barker threw back his 
head, put his arms akimbo, and standing up, planted himself with 
his back to the fire, controversial as a game-cock. It was his usual 
attitude when he was going to defend a paradox of his own, of at- 
tack the opinions of another, and was in his declamatory vein. 
“ I’ll tell you what you are. Spread — you are a merchant, liable to 
all the hazards of commerce, the vicissitudes of public credit, the 
caprice of the elements, the frauds or the misfortunes of all the 
houses connected with you over all the world. You were a member 
of parliament but the other day, the victim ot Mr. Plumptre, at the 
mercy ot Peter Borthwick; at this hour you are a voter tor Heaven 
knovshow many boroughs and counties; at the next election, the 
protectionist squires will worry you like a fox, 1 only hope Lord 
George may not be in at your death. 1 won’t count your guardi- 
anships and trusteeships; I believe you are legally responsible for 
half the widows and orphans in Lancashire. Pray, is there an as- 
sociation of any description of which you are not, at least, honorar}^ 
secretary, or a joint-stock company in which yon have not shares? 
Hot one, 1 believe in my conscience; but this is not all, nor the 
worst of it: you are a married man; you have— how many children 
have you? — no matter— and as to godchildren, 1 presume, with 
your passion for responsibilities, you are sponsor for some round 
dozens of Lancashire witches and Liverpool scamps.” 

Spread enjoyed his friend’s humor, and never interrupted its 
career. But when Barker came to a halt, he replied, that if he had 
his yoke to bear, like other men, as yet he had not found it an op- 
pressive one. 

“ But why bear any yoke,” demanded Barker, returning to his 
seat, “ heavy or light, when a man can avoid all yokes, as 1 do, 
* safe out of Fortune’s shot ’? It you can dance in fetters, let me tell 
you. Spread, it’s a rare talent; it’s no accomplishment of mine, and 
therefore I don’t go to the ball.” 

“ Y’ou’ll go to the ball sooner or later. Barker,” replied Spread, 
replenishing his glass — “ everybody does— no ball, no supper — no 
enjoyment of life, without taking one’s fair share of the business 
and cares of it; we’ll meet at the ball yet, depend upon it— and who 
knows. Barker, but 1 may live to see you, some merry morning, 
tripping it in mnculo matrimonii.'* 

“ When 1 become a man of business, a slave of the lamp,” said 
Barker, about to help himself to more Amontillado, “ 1 shall proba- 
bly become a slave of the ring too— not till then.” 

“ One glass of this,” said the jovial Spread, pushing the jug of 
claret toward his saturnine friend. 

Barker was complaisant enough to comply. Spread filled at the 


24 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

same time, anrl thought it a propitious moiueut to remind Barker of 
his standing engagement to keep the Christmas with him at Liver- 
pool. Whether it was the influence of the generous liquor, or his 
attachment to Spread, the bachelor made but little opposition. 

We shall beasmall party,” said the hospitable merchant; ” but 
we shall be a gay one.” 

“ We. differ in many things,” said Barker, taking a second glass 
of the old Bordeaux, “but we agree in some things. We both love 
an old wine, an old book, and an old friend.” 

“We do,” said Spread, repeating the words, “old wine, old 
books, and old friends; all good, all excellent; the old friend the 
best of the three; but to fight the battle of life a man must have 
something more. Barker.” 

“ An old wife, 1 suppose,” said Barker, gruffly. 

“ 1 meant a young one,” said Spread. 

“ I am content with the old friend,” said the bachelor. 

“Just one word upon that point, my dear Barker,” said the hon- 
est merchant, earnestly, and rising from the table as he said it. “1 
have friends, and 1 prize them; no man prizes friendship more. 1 
know — as Montaigne says — that the ‘ arms of friendship are long 
enougb to reach and join hands from one end of tne world to the 
other;’ but you will live to acknowledge the truth of what 1 am 
about to say, and it is the fruit of twenty years’ experience — One 
love is woi'ili a thousand friendships." 

Barker smiled cynically, and Spread, having thus v igorously sum- 
med up the argument, retired; not before he had made considerable 
impression on the magnum of claret; without, however, passing 
the frontier of temperance, an indiscretion he had never in his life 
been guilty of. The north-easter was still blowing, parching the 
earth, and chilling the very souls of men. Spread could not help 
thinking, as he buttoned himself up to his throat, of Barker's per- 
verse fancy for the rascalliest wind that blows. Boreas is a ruffian 
and a bully, but the north-east is a rascal. -^Eolus has not such a 
vicious, ill-conditioned blast in his pufiy bags. It withers like an 
evil eye; it blights like a parent’s curse; unkinder than ingratitude; 
more biting than forgotten benefits. It comes with sickness on its 
wings, and rejoices only the doctor and the sexton. When Charon 
hoists a sail, it is the north-east that swells it; it purveys for Famine 
and caters for Pestilence. From the savage realms of the Czar it 
comes with desolating sweep, laden with moans from Siberian mines, 
and sounding like echoes of the knout; but not a fragrant breath 
brings it from all the rosaries of Persia, so destitute is it of grace 
and charity. While it reigns, no fire heats, no raiment comforts, 
no walls protect— cold without bracing, scorching without warmth. 
It deflowers the earth, and it wans the sky. The ghastliest of hues 
overspreads the face of things, and collapsing Nature seems expir- 
ing of cholera. 

Still Spread had not imparted to his friend what he was sO anxious 
to reveal to him— his projected wilhrawal from the Rialto and 
sequestration in rural life. In truth, Spread was a little afraid of 
Barker, and his courage required some screwing up, before he could 
venture to broach a subject which he foresaw would lead to an un- 
usual exhibition of moroseness. The first pari of the communica- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


25 


tion, however, was calculated rather to gratify than irritate the 
ascetic bachelor. But there was no staving* oft the inevitable 
questions. 

“ What will you do? — how will you dispose of the time you will 
have on your hands? — go into parliament again? — continue in Liv- 
erpool?” 

Into parliament! no, 120 — no intention of it; but it is not probable 
1 shall continue in Liverpool. We are thinking— ” 

” Of settling in London, of course.” As if there was no alter- 
native, over the whole terraqueous globe — no spot habitable but 
London. 

‘‘Not exactly,” in a dastardly tone. 

** Why, where else, Spread — where else?” 

” We are thinking of settling — in the country.” 

‘‘You can’t be serious!” with surprise and vexation. 

‘‘ Yes, 1 am,” delivered doggedly. 

Y'ou don’t mean to tell me you are deliberately thinking of 
country life?” repeated Barker, rising from his chair and rising in 
tone simultaneously. 

Spread adhered to his declaration manfully enough. Barker was 
instantly in his game-cock attitude, with his back to the fire, and 
bristling with pugnacity. 

‘‘ I’ll tell you my mind. Spread, frankly, as 1 always do. The idea 
of a man like you, who has passed fifty years of his life in Liver- 
pool, between the docks and the counting-house— the iit a of such 
a man turning squire, farmer, slmph^erd, is the most absurd, ridicu- 
lous, preposterous, nonsensical thing 1 ever heard of!” 

‘‘ Go on,” said Spread, resignedly. 

Barker did go on. * 

‘‘ WTiat qualifications have you for a country gentleman? What 
do you know of farming, of plowing, or harrowing, of planting, 
pruning, fencing, sowing, or reaping? You have read Virgil — per- 
haps Theocritus: 1 don’t think you have read a line of Varro or 
Columella. There’s the sum total of your qualifications to join the 
agricultural interest. What’s a rake? — what’s mangel-wurzel?— 
what’s pottage?” 

” Rhyme for cottage,” replied Spread, disposed to be vexed, but 
keeping his temper. 

” Don’t do it, Spread— don’t go cottaging and pottaging it at this 
time of your life, it’s absurd enough tor a farce. I’ll call you 
Menalcas.” 

‘‘ 1 anticipate it,” said the merchant, with a mock air of resigna- 
tion, as if the threatened penalty was Of the heaviest nature; ” but 
you have been running away with the story, as usual,” he added, 
in his natural tone. ” One can live in the country without being 
either squire or farmer.” 

‘‘ ’To live in the country,” cried Barker, ‘‘ a man ought to be either 
a farmer, a fox-hunter, a poet, or a satyr. Are you one of the four?” 

‘‘ Not one: at the same time — ”• 

” A cottage!” interrupted Barker, with visions before his eyes of 
eglantine and earwdgs. 

‘‘You won’t hear me,” said Spread, with good-humored im- 
patience. 


26 . THE BACHELOR OF THE Al.BANY. 

“1 always gave you credit,” persisted Barker, ‘‘for knowing 
what a comfortable bouse was as well as any man in England.” 

‘‘And therefore you conclude that 1 am going to cottage it, as 
you call it 1 never said a word about a cottage.” 

When Barker was in the wrong he never admitted it; but his 
practice was to shift the ground a little. Besides, he liad been in- 
ternally asking himselt the qiiestiou. What is ic to me where the 
Spreads live— Liverpool or London, town or country? 

‘‘Have you fixed on a locality?” he now inquired, suddenly 
assuming a tone of indifte.rence; ‘‘ have you a house in your eye?” 

‘‘ As to locality,” said Spread, ‘‘ my present idea is to take a villa 
at Norwood.” 

‘‘ Norwood, nonsense!— why Norwood?” 

' ‘‘ Or Richmond,” continued Spread, having reasons of his own 

lor not insisting on the locality which he named first. ‘‘In tact, 
nothing is settled as yet. 1 am afraid we shall not find it easy to 
get a place to suit us; we are not very easy to please.” 

” Why should you?” demanded Barker. ‘‘ Nobody is, or ought 
to be, in houses, or in anything else, who has true taste, and a fort- 
une to enable him to indulge it. Far from being a virtue, what is 
vulgatlv called contentment is, in nine cases out of ten, a vice, sir, 
and a shabby one.” 

Here the bachelor was clearly in the right. Let those to whose 
happy lot fall the choicest grapes of the cluster— those on which the 
sun has gazed longest and hottest— the full, dark, rich ones, such 
as are pressed into the cups of kings and fill the goblets of dukes 
and archdukes— squetze them to the last sweet drop, squeeze them 
and diain thepi utterly: there are twenty green and soui on the 
bunch for one such ruddy darling of the summer. 

But we must enjoy the sweets of life without vainly expecting to 
avoid its bitters. It is easy to talk of shaking off care, and evading 
duties and obligations; the thing is possible, no doubt, tor a certain 
time and to a certain extent; the best proof is that Mr. Barker 
contrived to live to the age ot forty on the no responsibility princi- 
ple, as if he was no part of the great machine, as careless and uncai ed 
tor as the jolly miller in the song. But life is life; hurrauity is 
humanity; to be in the world and not ot the world is systematically 
practicable only in the apostolic sense. Life is made up of relations, 
affinities, dependencies, connections, ties, and obligations: they are 
as numerous as the wiles ot w’omen; as involved as the schemes of 
diplomacy; as thick, and in the long run as inevitable, as the paths 
and pitfalls on the bridge ot Mirza. To try to escape them is to try 
to elude a universal law% and, like every such endeavor, is sure to 
terminate in failure, if not in punishment. The attempt is selfish, 
and selfishness may succeed for a while, but never eventually or 
entirely triumphs. Barker and Spread scarcely ever met without a 
battle on this point. Spread w'as always urging his friend to change 
his mode of life, leave the Albany, enter the world, lake a wife, 
and ‘‘ give hostages to fortune.” 

This was a phrase that always provoked Barker. ‘‘ 1 call it 
tempting fortune,” he used always to reply, on which Mr. Spread 
never failed to rejoin that it was one thing to tempt fortune and 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 27 

another to trust Providence, to which Barker would reply with a 
growl, and ehange the subject. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Bear me, oh ! bear me, to sequester’d scenes, 

The Lowering mazes, and surrounding greens. 

To Thames’s banks, which fragrant breezes fill, 

Or where the Muses sport on Cooper’s Hill, 

Windsor Forest. 

Mr. Spread in search of a House — Confiicting Tastes in Houses — 
Arguments for and against Norwood — Mrs. Harry Parquhar— 
Mr. Barker accompanies Spread House hunting — The Poetry of 
Auctionetring — Remarks on the Names and bites of Villas— Mr. 
Spread finds a House to suit the Narrowsmiths, but no House 
to suit Himself — The House-hunteis’ Return to Town — Dine at 
the Piazza, CoventGarden— The Four Novelists— Their interest- 
ing Conversation — How Mr. Spread tound by Accident what he 
had failed to discover by laborious Investigation. 

No — it was not a verv easy matter to find the kind of thing the 
Spreads wanted. A great many wishes were to he gratified, a great 
many fancies indulged, a great many requisites combined. As to 
cottages, they were out of the question; they detested cottages just 
as much as Mr: Barker did. What they all agreed in coveting was 
a good, handsome country-house. The first point to be settled was 
the locality; here tastes varied considerably; Augusta’s was pas- 
toral, Philip’s aquatic, Elizabeth's alpine, the mother’s was cniefly 
horticultural, Mrs. Martin’s academic and sylvan; Mr. Spread’s 
own taste to vaguely end abstractedly rural, that he was almost 
equally divided between the forest faction, the garden interest, the 
marine department, and the mountain party. If he had any private 
feeling it was in favor of sheltered walks and sunny terraces, for 
exercise, health, and conversation. Then the junior branches had 
their inclinations, too; Mysie w'as for an island, Katherine only in- 
sisted on a grotto, Theodoie was probably most anxious about an 
orchard, and a paddock for a pony. Now, it was no easy matter 
to unite all these desiderata, even with the aid of the supplement 
of the “Times,'’ and the guidance of George Robins. A place 
equally haunted by Naiads, Oreads, Dryads, and Nereids was dilli- 
cult to discover; and then Flora must reign, too; and Bacchus and 
Ceres were not to be excluded. There were votes for North Wales, 
votes for South, suffrages lor Cumberland, voices for the Isle of 
Wight, voices tor Scotland — nay, at one moment, there was a feel- 
in g'mani tested in favor of the Lakes of Killarney, and it was no 
anti-Irish prejudice on the part of any member of the family that 
prevented them from crossing the Channel in quest of a settlement. 
Norwood bad fair pretensions. Mrs. Spread had a married sister, 
Mrs. Harry Farquhar, who resided there, and that was an argument 
for Norwood, not incapable of being answered, but still of con- 
siderable weight, pressed as it was by a lady who was wont to carry 
her points, and carry them with a high hand into the bargain. Mrs. 
Farquhar was a singular woman, very different from her sister, 


28 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


smart, cle^^er, clarin.s:, masculine, a termagant wife, a capricious 
mother, an ardent friend, and a bitter enemy. Her good points, 
however, outweighed her bad ones— at least they did so in the esti- 
mation of the Spreads; she was partial to them, in turn, and work- 
ing heaven and earth to have them near her; there was no other 
spot, she vowed, in all England to suit them, and she was actually 
in treaty for a house, which she took upon herself to say was just 
the house tor them. But there were conflicting considerations: 
Mrs. Farquhar was too restless and meddling a spirit to make a 
very desirable neighbor, even to her own sister; and, besides, there 
was so much ill-blood between her and Mr, Barker, that Mr. Spread 
had cause to apprehend that he could not fix himself in that lady’s 
vicinity without sacrificing the society or his oldest and deaiest 
friend. ATe have seen that, in his late conversation with Barker, 
Spread drew in his horns the moment he had inadvertently men- 
tioned Norwood, and then talked of Richmond as the situation not 
unlikely to be ultimately selected for his sejour. He could not have 
named a place more likely than the latter to mitigate the rancor of 
his friend’s animosity to the country. The facility of access from 
town, by land and by water, its decided suburban character, its 
populousness, its notoriety with the attraction of the Star and 
Garter, were all such strong recommendations in the bachelor’s eyes, 
that he prevailed upon Mr. Spread, before he had been a week in 
town, to decide upon Richmond or its immediate neighborhood, 
without consulting with, his family any more upon the subject. 
Indeed, there was no great occasion to do so, for Richmond united 
all the conditions insisted on by the several members of the Spread 
confederation to a greater degree than Norwood. There was even 
an island tor Mysie, and a grotto, at Twickenham, for the young 
lady with cavernous propensities. The question having been thus 
far advanced, Mr. Spread began to make inquiries about villas on 
the banks of the Thames; he took notes of several places advertised 
in the “Times,” and obtained from the auctioneers and house- 
agents the names of sundry villas, or of people who had villas to 
dispose of. There were the Ash-groves, Bushy-parks, and 
Meadow-banks, River-views, Priories, and Dovecots, a Tusculum, 
a Sans Souci, and a Vallombrosa. How Barker ridiculed and 
abused the very names of the places; how he did run . down the 
hills, cut up the groves, and trample the meadows under his feet! 
However, he was so bent upon keeping Mr. Spread to his engage- 
ment to locate himself somewhere about Richmond that he con- 
sented, with much less difficulty than his friend had anticipated, to 
go down with him, one marvelously warm and sunny day, to sur- 
vey the district, though he positively objected at that late period of 
the year to taking an early dinner at the Star and Garter. Mr. 
Spread was of opinion— like a sensible man— that winter is the- 
proper time to form a judgment of a country-house, and he thought, 
further, that he could make no more acceptable Christmas gift to 
his wife and children than the villa upon which their hearts were 
set. As to the early dinner, he gave up the point at once, and 
agreed with Barker to dine at the usual hour at the Piazza Coffee 
House, in Covent Garden. 

The tour of inspection was amusing enough; it supplied Spread 


THE BACHELOE OE THE ALBANY. 


29 


with many subjects for pleasantry, and Barker with equally numer- 
ous occasions tor a grovvl. Both gentlemen had abundant occa- 
sion to remark the singular fertility of imagination possessed by 
the auctioneers; what was a castle in print dwindled to a cottage in 
reality; gorgeous woods shrunk into paltry shrubberies; stately 
mansions into citizens’ boxes; lawns into paddocks; mountains into 
hillocks; parks and chases into wretched mclosures, where a herd 
of field-mice could with difficulty find sufficient range or pasture. 
They were also led to notice the admirable talent for nomenclature 
exhibited by the owners of suburban villas; how happily places 
without a bush wmre designated groves; and houses staring 5mu in 
the face, on the sides of public thoroughfares, christened hermitages; 
they saw lodges where they would not have lotlged for a consider- 
able bribe, and retreats which they were glad to retreat /romy Val- 
lombrosa was a sun-and-dust-trap on the lop of a hill, and the villas 
with Roman names were the Cockneyist abodes in all the environs 
of London. Another field of observation was opened by the singular 
ingenuity with which the builders of numerous houses had selected 
the sites, so as to give them the full benefit of every bleak wind that 
blows, and spare them the greatest possible amount of light and 
warmth. In this respect, Tusculum was as near perfection as a house 
could be. . The shelter from the south was complete, the exposure to 
the north-east incomparable; it seemed as if the advice of the astron- 
omer royal must have been taken, or it never could have been 
placed with such extreme precision, so as to have the minimum of 
the sun’s favor in the circle of the year. 

“ The very place for the Karrow^smiths,” said Mr, Spread. 

“ 1 had no idea,” said Barker, ” there was anything to be had 
BO perfect in its way. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Let us return to town,” said the merchant, in despair. They 
did so, and owed to a fortunate incident in the evening, wdiile they 
sat sipping their wine, what they had failed to discover in the morn- 
ing, with all their pains and peregrinations. 

At a table not far from them, in the Piazza Coffee House sat four 
gentlemen, whose conversation soon proved that they were all lit- 
erary men, novelists of greater or less repute. They were, in fact 
(though neither Mr. Spread nor Mr, Barker knew them personally), 
P, R. G. Lowmstoffe, a voluminous writer of romances; Mr. 
Warner, great in the line of didactic fiction; Mr. Grimm, author of 
the ” Horrors of Houndsditch,” ” Mysteries of Bristol,” and several 
other works belonging to the slouched-hat and dark-lantern school; 
and last, if not least, Lord Prancis Shearcraft, w'ho had recently 
found out a particularly expeditious method of composition, in 
which he was about equally indebted to the assistance of his book- 
seller and his cutler. Had the year been younger by some months, 
these four personages would have gone down to Black wall, and 
dined at Lovegrove’s, but now they were content to make them- 
selves comfortable in Covenf Garden; the banquet being at the cost 
of Warner, who had lost abet to Lowestofle, having rashly wagered 
that the latter would not produce three novels, of three volumes 
each, in the space of four calendar months. At a dinner under 
such circumstances, the conversation fell naturally upon the art, 
of novel-writing in general, and Barker and Spread (being weary 


30 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

after their fruitless expedition, and more inclined to listen than talk) 
were both diverted and edified by the dialoffue which they could 
not avoid overhearing. That they could be in any manner prac- 
tically concerned in it, never, of course, tor an instant entered their 
heads. 

“The fact is,” said LowestofEe, justly elated at the victory he 
had won, “ 1 have got a wonderful knack of novel-writing: 1 have 
no vloubt 1 could have given four in the same time, if it had been 
worth my while. For some years back 1 have regularly written 
lour or five at least in the twelvemonth. My plan is to have one 
going on at my library table, another at a standing-desk; 1 throw off 
a third while 1 sit sipping my wine after dinner, and a fourth- 
faith, 1 oin’t tell.how^ 1 manage to produce the fourth- but 1 do it 
— it’s incrediide — but 1 do it.” 

“ You must find it very difficult,” said Warner, who wrote at the 
slow rale of a novel a season, “ to keep your characters distinct, and 
the threads of the stories from getting entangled.” 

“ Faith, the threads do get entangled a little now and then, but 
as to the characters, the ( nly difficulty 1 find is to keep the hair of 
my heroines of the same color throughout. 1 sometimes make a slip 
there, 1 confess. Belinda, in my last historical romance, has fair 
hair in the first volume, auburn in the second, and jet-black in the 
third. The reviewers never detected it.” 

“ And if they had,” said Grimm, “ your defense would have been 
simple enough— that Belinda, of course, used some of the hair dyes 
and atrapilatorics in vogue.” 

Lowesioffe and the others laughed. 

“ Still,” said Warner, “ 1 can't help thinking, that to create and 
sustain interesting characters is not so easy a task as Lowestoffe 
appears to suppose ” 

“ 1 have a theory of my own on the subject of characters,” re- 
plied Lowestoffe. “ A novel is, or ought to be, a picture of life; 
now do we commonly meet with interesting characters in life? W hy, 
then, should people expect to find them in novels? I write upon 
what 1 call the picture-of-life principle; and 1 apply it to incidents 
as well MS to characters. Perhaps yon may have remarked that my 
novels do not aim at abounding in what are commonly called in- 
teresting characters or entertaining events.” 

“ 1 certaiidy have remarked that they don’t contain them,” said 
Warner, maliciously; and I.ord Francis and M.r. Grimm said they 
had made the same observation. 

“ iLHefeuilleion system would suit you admirably,” said Grimm; 
“ you could supply all the journals in London.” 

“lam actually (>ngaged at this moment,” said Lowestoffe, “to 
write a romance in the ‘ Mark Lane Express.’ ” 

“ Who is to be the villain?” asked Warner, “ Cobden, or Lord 
George Bentinck?” 

“ Nobody like me,” said Grimm, “ for villains.” 

“ That w your line,” said Lowestoffe; “you are unquestionably 
very great in it.” 

“You have a diabolical imagination, Grimm,” said Lord Francis. 

“ All habit,” said the author of the “ Mysteries of Bristol.” “ 1 
ruminate so much on abandoned characters and revolting subjects. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


31 


Every dilapiclatea house is to me the scene of some hideous assassi- 
natioD, or still more appalling crime. London, to my eye, teems 
with conspirators and murderers. 1 would undertake, in twelve 
months, to make the parks of this city so horrible, that the in- 
habitants would resort, for an evening’s walk, to Goodman’s Fields 
in preference.” 

‘‘ Very kind to the citizens of London,” said Warner. 

” Why. in the cellars of this very house — ” continued Grimm, 
growing excited. 

“ Hush, Grimm — don’t ruin the Piazza,” said Lord Francis. 

“ I’ll tell you an extremely curious fact,” said Grimm, ‘‘ in illus- 
tration of the power of fiction. In my ‘ Horrors of Houndsditch,’ 
there is one scene laid at a villa near Richmond; 1 called it the 
Rosary; there is a brutal murder — indeed, two murders; and then 
there is a double apj^rilion; all sheer invention, of course. But it 
turns out that there is actually a villa of the same name in the same 
locality, and what do you think has occurred within the lost week? 
Why, the family that occupied it has thrown it up— their servants 
deserted them in a body; the place is for sale at this moment, tlie 
nicest villa residence in England.” 

” Take a note of that, Spread,” said the bachelor, sotto wee. 

” 1 know it well,” said Lord Francis:. “ it belongs to the best of 
all wouhy fellows, my friend Dr. Bedford, dean of some place in 
Ireland; he has resided in that villa for the last ten years.” 

” Take the Rosary, Spread,” said Barker. 

Mr. Spread took his friend’s advice, and the haunted villa the next 
day. It was indeed a gem, and it may as w'ell be stated at once that 
the Spreads never received, during their tenancy, the slightest 
molestation from Mr. Grimm’s apparitions. 

The news of the taking of the Rosary w'as not long in reaching 
Norwmod, and the ears of the eccentric and vixenish Mrs. Hairy 
Farqiihar, who penetrated with a glance into the share Mr. Barker 
had in the defeat of her arrangements. The bachelor of the Albany 
will, sooner or later, get a blowing-up, depend upon it. 


CHAPTER Vll. 

Cheer your heart; 

Be you not troubled with the time, which drives 
O’er your content these strong necessities; 

But let determined things to destiny 

Hold unbewail’d their w^ay . — Antony and Cleopatra. 

The Tropics of Life— Mr. Barker starts for Liverpool— Railway 
Reading — Mutual Scrutiny of Faces— Litigious Behavior of the 
Bachelor— His Character of Lord Brougham and of Sir Robert 
Peel— Interesting Discovery of a London Student— Barker 
attacks the Squires — The Company changes— Old Mrs. Briscoe 
and her fat Maid— A Nephew in search of an Uncle— Conduct 
of the Nephew — Mr. Barker overhears an alarming Conversation 
— How he got involved with Mrs. Briscoe and two other Petti- 
coats— And in what an amiable Character he arrived at Mr. 
Spread ’s. 

There are certainly turning points in the lives of men, when 
things, after going on smoothly or roughly, happily or the conirary^ 


32 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


begin to alter either for worse or better; and it would seem that 
these tropical moments generally occur at the precise times when men 
are least expecting the tide to change, and most assured ot the 
stability of their fortunes. At such a crisis, Mr. Barker, with all 
his confidence in his no-responsibility system (a confidence hitherto 
justified by its almost uninterrupted success) is now arriving rapid- 
ly; and, in truth, since it seems to be an elementary moral law, that 
tlie course of love (at once the original and conservative principle ot 
society) shall never long run smooth, it would be equally unjust and 
contradictory that the stream of a bachelor’s destiny (a course essen 
tially anti-social) should flow unhindered and unruffled to the close. 

The train started. Every place was occupied, and each traveler 
provided himself with one or two daily or w^eekly newspapers. 
There were two “ Chronicles,” two copies ot the “Times,” the 
same ot the “ Daily Kew^s,” one Mrs. Camp, and no Mrs. Harris. 
Barker had the “ Examiner,” because it was witty and caustic; and 
the “ Spectator,” because it was clever and crotchety. The pro- 
ceedings commenced with a general reading ot the journals. Three 
gentlemen attempted, simultaneously, to peruse three ol the vast 
morning papers, spread to the full extent of the broadsheet. This 
was not very easy to do, so twm of them soon gave it up; the third 
was more persevering and combative, and continued to travel 
through his “ Times,” from the advertisements ot revolted lap-dogs 
down to the printer’s name. Each man, having satisfied himself 
with his own papers, proceeded to borrow those of his neighbors, 
until the system of reciprocity was fully carried out, except in the 
case of Barker, who borrowed nobody’s property, and arrayed his 
visage in such terror, that only one of his companions ventured to 
propose commercial relations with him. The reading concluded, a 
general mutual scrutiny of faces commenced; A looked at B as if 
he despised him thoroughly; B recnunoitered C as if he had sus- 
pected him of belonging to the sw^ell mob; C evidently considered 
A an impertinent intruder; and as to Mr. Barker, he glanced about 
him as if nobody had a risrlR to be there but himself. Indeed, he 
was exceedingly litigious all day, snapping at some, snarling at others, 
scowling and growling, mumbling and grumbling, taking people up 
and putting people down, asking blunt questions, iriving sharp an- 
swers, sometimes right, sometimes wrong, and treading upon every- 
body’s corns. When, at length, there began to be some conversa- 
tion, one of the party, a subdued, hen-pecked looking man, with a 
white face and a black coat, in ail probability a perpetual curate, 
told a lamentable tale of the upsetting of a boat on the river, which 
be said he had witnessed with his own eyes, as if it was usual to 
witness boating accidents, or occurrences of any kind, with the eyes 
of other people. 

“ There were two men,” he said, “ in the boat— one was provi- 
dentially saved.” 

“ And the other, sir,” interrupted Barker, sharply, “ the other. I 
suppose, was providentially drowned.” 

The perpetual curate looked aghast. 

“Don’t you think,” pursued Barker, with acrimonj^ “that 
Providence had as much to do with the drowning ofthe one as with 
the rescue of the other?” 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALB AH Y. 


33 


The curate was meditating a reply, when a paragraph in “ Punch ” 
made the rest ot the company laugh, upon which Mr. Barker said, 

he should liKe to know what ‘ Punch ’ would do without the 
fountains in Tiafalgar Square, the Duke of Wellington’s statue, or 
Lord Brougham’s nose?” 

1 entirely concur with you, sir,” said a presumptuous student of 
•one of the London colleges, who never omitted an occasion for dis- 
playing his ignorance in the most high-flown language he could 
find, ” at least as tar as relates to the august Brougham — don’t you 
agree with me, that Brougham is a tremendous statesman? He is 
ceitainly, in my opinion, the loftiest, most towering, and 1 will go 
so far as to say the most gigantic intellect that ever illumined and 
enligliteued Europe; indeed, I might say the terraqueous globe.” 

A look of intense scorn was the only notice that Barker took of 
this hurst of eloquence; hut, in reply to one of the other travelers, 
he dashed ofi: a virulent sketch of the “ august Brougham,” con- 
cluding by pronouncing him a man of brilliant incapacity, vast and 
various misinformation, and prodigious moral requirements. 

Well, sir, 1 hope you will allow that Sir Robert Peel is a great 
man,” interposed the perpetual curate, who always thought the 
prime-minister a demi-god, whether he was Whig or Tory.” 

‘‘ I am told,” muttered Barker, ‘‘ that Sir Robert is a great eater 
•of beefsteaks and toasted cheese.” 

“ He is a confounded apostate, at all events,” said a gentleman 
with a white hat, a green coat, and top-boots, agricultural all over; 

but that is neither a wonder nor a crime in these days.” 

‘‘ His apostasies, sir,” said Barker, ” are the most creditable pas- 
sages of his life. He rats opportunely and ably, when he sets about 
it; he abandons his party manfully, and flies from his colors like a 
iiero.” 

” I made a curious observation the other day,” said the London 
•collegian, ” R. P. stands both for Robert Peel and rotten potato.” 

This luminous remark turned the conversation upon free trade. 

” The rotten potato will ripen the corn question,” said a disciple 
of Cobden. 

” Yes,” said the collegian, ‘‘we shall be indebted for the most 
tremendous political improvement of the nineteenth century to a 
miscroscopic fungus in the invisible tissues of a tuber.” 

” Heaven help the agricultural interest!” cried thesquire; ” what 
w'ill become of us, with the enormous burdens upon land — ” 

” Name them,” cried Barker. 

The squire was dumb. 

” The greatest burdens upon the land of this countiy, that I know 
of,” pursued Barker, ” are your georgical dukes and bucolical mar- 
quises.” 

” Their pockets will soon be light enough,” said the squire, step- 
ping out of the carriage, the train having now arrived at the Rugby 
station. 

” Easier to lighten their pookets than enlighten their heads,” said 
Barker, taking a parting shot at him. 

During the next stage or two, Mr. Barker behaved tolerably well, 
for he slept the greater part ot the time. When he awoke, he found 
the party constructed anew, and now it was that his troubles for 
8 


34 THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. 

the day commenced His vis d-vis was a raw youth, of eighteen or 
twenty, with a round rosy face, and a simple, good-humored physi- 
ognomy; he was immersed in an immense rough coat, like a bear’s 
skin, with enormous mother-of-pearl buttons, and a dozen pockets 
of all sizes and in all positions. In fact, he looked something like 
a brown bear, or a great water-dog, sitting on its hind legs; and he 
kept his neighbors in constant alarm, by sometimes pulling out a 
cigar-case, as if he meant to commence smoking, sometimes pro- 
ducing a three-barreled pocket-pistol, apd examining the priming, 
sometimes displaying a wonderful knife with a hundred blades, 
and, every now and then, giving a. blast with a hunting-hoin, which 
he had bought, he informed an elderly lady beside him, at a shop in 
High Holborn, adding that it was a great bargain, and that if she 
ever wanted a thing of the kind, he would recommend her to go to 
the same place. The old lady was as nice an old lady as benevolent 
features, white cambric, and shining black silk could make her. 
She seemed, indeed, the incarnation of philanthopy, for she was 
always warning somebody not to do something or another, implor- 
ing the guards to take care of themselves, or administering drops 
and lozenges to a plump, lazy maid, who seemed neither to attend 
to her mistress nor to be expected to do so, although her sidelong 
looks and coquettish cough showed that she was very well disposed 
to a flirtation with the owner of the wonderful knife. The middle 
seat, at the right hand ot Mr. Barker and opposite the plump maid 
(whose name appeared to be Letty), was now occupied by a cool, 
sedate man, who might have been somebody or nobody, a landed 
man or a funded man, an honest fellow or a swindler, from all that 
you could gather, either from his physiognomy or his costume. The 
seat beyond this ambiguous individual, on the same side, could only 
be said to have been half filled; its tenant was a slight, pale, retiring 
little girl, with features not in keeping with her dress, tor while the 
former disposed one to believe her of the class that is boin to afflu- 
ence and ease, the latter as obviously suggested that her lot was in- 
digence and labor. A plain straw bonnet, a gray plaid shawl, a 
frock of dark- blue stuft, and gloves through which, in more places 
than one, her fair fingers peeped; such was her simple, almost poor 
attire. The. impudent fat maid evidently regarded her with supreme 
scorn, as much as to say, “ Marry, come up, the likes ot her in a 
coach.” And, indeed, this was almost the only notice the little girl 
received during the journey, except occasionally from the officious 
old lady herself, who seemed possessed by a spirit of nursing and 
care-taking which in a professional nurse-tender woul'd have been 
perfectly miraculous. ' 

As nobody troubled themselves to conjecture who the neglected 
thing in the corner was, why should ice speculate on the subject?' 
She looked like a poor girl found guilty of the crime of poverty, 
and sentenced to shirt- making for life, a seven years’ term, at most,, 
of necessity and needle-work. Perhaps it was otherwise. Nobody 
now cared, and least ot all the Bachelor of the Albany, who had 
quite enough to do to repel the fidgety old hidy’s benevolent atten- 
tions, and to defend himself against the young man opposite to him, 
who was armed with such a variety of offensive weapons, 

” Have a care, sir. 1 hope your pistol is not loaded,” he at length 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


35 


broke out in a surly tone, with a look still surlier, at the formidable 
simpleton in the enormous rough coat, wiio, in exhibiting the pistol 
to the plump maid, had repeatedly pointed it right at Mr, Barker’s 
head. The old lady had already, in her capacity of protectress-gen- 
•eral, cautioned the youth twenty times against shooting himself, 
which was the least part of the danger to be apprehended. None 
of these remonstrances, however, proving successful, the cool man 
took a different course; he expressed a curiosity to examine the pis- 
tol, and the moment it was placed in his hands, he extended it out 
of the window, and a couple of sharp reports instantly proved that 
two of the barrels had been loaded. The innocent youth, far from 
taking offense, laughed loud, said it was funny, and called the cool 
man a devilish sensible fellow, a complimeni which that gentleman 
•could not have returned with the slightest respect for truth. 

Barker, being now comparatively at his ease, subsided into his 
corner; the old lady, wearied with her exertions, began to doze; 
and the sedate man, the fat soubrette, and the hero of the three- 
barreled pistol fell into chat on their several destinations; the sou- 
brette leading the way by stating the name of her mistress to be 
Briscoe, and that she was going to spend the Christmas at the house 
of a certain Mr. Spread, at Liverpool. Barker, overhearing this 
from behind his newspaper, formed a pleasing notion of the party 
he was on his way to join; and his satisfaction must have been con- 
siderably enhanced when Letty unfolded the Christmas presents 
which Mrs. Briscoe was taking down to the little Spreads, one of 
which was a complete zoblogical garden, in a wooden box, with 
roaring lions, growding bears, grunting pigs, chattering monkeys, 
and all the noises of the animal kingdom. The bachelor instantly 
determined not to disclose the fact of his Deing bound to Mr. 
Spread's likewise, to avoid being involved in attentions to the old 
lady, looking after luggage, engaging carriages, and all that sort of 
thing, which nobody liked less than he did, and which, it was clear, 
was tlie business of the plump Letty, if her office was not a down- 
right sinecure. 

"But Mr. Barker was destined that day to overhear a conversation 
which touched him nearer than the revelation of Mrs. Briscoe’s 
maid. The simple youth in the rough coat and the sedate gentle- 
man began to be very cordial and communicative, the latter evinc- 
ing a desire to know all about the former, and the forrcer not a bit 
backward, to gratify his thirst for information. Barker did not 
care one farthing to hear what passed between them, but we can 
not always abstract our minds from what people are saying and 
doing at our elbows, particularly in a coach. 

The bachelor w^as first struck by hearing, as he thought, his own 
name pronounced— at least it sounded like Barker — it might have 
been Parker— he was certain it was either the one or the other, and 
it was pronounced by the young man as if he had been telling the 
other his cognomen. Then there followed what was obviously an 
historiette of the stripling’s life and adventures, the substance of 
which was, that he w’as a son of somebody or other who had died in 
the West Indies; that lie had been left some small property, which 
was growing less and less every day (probably owing to the pro- 
prietor’s tastes for pistols, knives, and hiintiug-hoins), and that he 


36 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 

had not, to his knowledge, a single relation living on either side of 
the house, except an uncle— (here Barker listened attentively) his 
father’s biother— (Barker’s attention became still more engaged) 
who resided somewhere in England, where, he had not yet been able 
to discover, but he was making every exertion to find him out, or 
“hunt him up,” as he elegantly expressed it— a phrase which he 
aptly accompanied with a blast of his horn, as if he imagined his 
uncle a hare or a fox, and was giving him chase on the instant. 

The blast ran thiough the bachelor like the thrust of a cold 
rapier; could he have been seen behind his newspaper, the form of 
his visage would have been observed to have undergone a comical 
elongation during the personal narrative of the unmannered youth 
with the horn. Barker— Parker— Parker— Barker. Tire words 
” hunt him up,” too. lingered in his ears very disagreeably, la 
fact, he felt some sudden mysierious sympathy with the unfortunate 
gentleman, whoever he was, who, little dreaming of what was in re- 
serve for him, was doomed to be ” hunted up ” by so interesting a 
claimant to the honor of his relationship. What a relief it was, 
when, as the train approached the next station, the nephew in 
search of an uncle informed his companions that he was under the 
necessity of depriving them of his attractive society. He took leave 
in the most troublesome and obstreperous manner possible, elbow- 
ing everybody, then insisting on shaking their hands, then kicking^ 
their shins, then begging their pardons, then pressing his cigars on 
the gentlemen (Mr. Barker particularly) and looking very much 
disposed to kiss the fat lady’s maia, wdro looked equally well in- 
clined to submit to his impudence. At length, after nearly crush- 
ing the quiet little girl in the corner into a mummy, and poking out 
the old lady’s eye with the mouthpiece ot the hunting-horn, he 
jumped out of the carriage, with a whoop like a Cherokee Indian,, 
and, after committing tw'enty more outrages,. while looking after his 
luggage, clambered, alternately shouting and winding his horn, on 
the top of an omnibus, which stood hard-by waiting for passengers. 

” He’s an innocent poor fellow,” said the sedate gentleman, look- 
ing at Barker, as the train again moved forward. ” 1 hope he will 
not be long before he discovers his uncle. He wants somebody to 
advise and direct him,” 

Barker made no reply; but his face showed that he felt in tho 
liveliest manner all the horror of holding the situation of natural 
adviser and director to such a young man as he had just been deliv- 
ered from. 

“His course would be,” continued the other, “to advertise in 
the ‘ Times.’ 1 knew people of the name of Parker in Leeds, for- 
merly,” 

“ Is Parker his name?” cried the bachelor, eagerly. 

“Well, then, I’m not certain,” said the other; “if it was not 
Parker, it was Barker.” 

Barker spoke no more. Tlie truth was, that he had a brother, 
and a brother, too, who had died in the West Indies. He had 
never heard of this brother having been married, or having had 
children; and he had always been under the impression that he had 
lived and died single and childless, like himself. Now, for the first 
time, had the idea been suggested to his mind that it was possible — 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


37 


just po?sible-~-not at all probable, that his brother might have been 
married and have had a son, without his privity to either transac* 
tion. A pleasant thing it would be— would it* not?— should such 
turn out to be tue real state ot the case. To a man of his tempera- 
ment and prit)ciples, the shadow of a doubt upon such a point was 
vexatious. The thought that such a consanguinity was even in 
posse, filled him with gall and wormwood; and tne worst of it was, 
that a nephew in such circumstances was almost the same as a sOn, 
So the world would regard it. Look sharp, Mr. Barker; have a 
care, good Bachelor of the Albany. Your no-responsibility princi- 
ple seems sjightly in danger just at this moment. A nephew is 
abroad in search ot an uncle! 

But his troubles for the day were not yet over. He had determined 
(a little selfishly) not to entangle himself with Mrs. Briscoe; but 
Fate, who smiles at human resolves, had made up her mind not 
only to involve him with the old lady and her maid, but likewise 
witli a third individual of the same sex, more interesting, and event- 
ually more embarrassing than either, by many degrees, A slight 
accident which occurred when the train had arrived within a hun- 
dred yards ot the terminus, rendered it impossible to bring it up 
alongside the platform. The night was dark and wet, the number 
of passengers unusually great, the quantity ot luggage enormous, 
the bustle prodigious, the uproar and confusion like the Tower of 
Babel. The women were at their wits’ ends, particularly those who, 
like Mrs. Briscoe and her attendant, were unprovided with a male 
escort. The porters ran off with trunks and boxes; the pickpockets 
on duty made away with as many bags and umbrellas as they could 
whip up in the hubbub, and the omnibuses, coaches, and cabs 
started away in rapid succession, to all manner of streets and squares, 
lanes and alleys wherever they were ordered by the traveler or the 
thief. Almost the very last passengers in a condition to move were 
Mrs. Briscoe and Mr. Barker; for the fair maid was utterly useless 
at ft pinch, and Mr. Barker’s bag and portiranteau were so long 
forthcoming, that at last he began to conclude them lost or stolen, 
and to storm at the railway police, the railway directors, and finally 
at railwa3’^8 themselves and railways generally. At length the port- 
manteau was produced, and was instantly shouldered, along with 
Mrs. Briscoe’s bulkier chattels, and carried off by the last remaining 
porter, who was directetl by the women to engage a coach, and by 
Mr. Barker to secure a fiy. At the same moment a bag came tum- 
bling dow'n the ladder, it fell at the maid’s feet, and she was going 
to take it up, when Mr. Barker interposed gruffly, and said he would 
carry it himself. He . did so, and was very much annoyed by the 
women following him, and particularly by Lelty, who repeatedly 
offered her assistance. When they reached the stand for the car- 
riages, Barker was quite out of breath, and very well pleased to 
throw down his load. 

“ Tiiank ye, sir,” said the fat maid. 

” 1 feel very much obliged, very much indeed, by your kind at- 
tention, sir,” added the old lady, courtes3dng most graciously Mr. 
Barker started, bowed, and winced at the compliments paid to his 
unintentional civility— for, in truth, he had been officiating as porter 
to Mrs. Briscoe! Savage with himself tor his precipitancy, he ran 


38 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANT. 

back to the train, and was just in tlieact of recovering his property, 
when a young female presented herselt timidly to his notice, and in 
a modest, hesitating manner begged he would have the kindness to 
direct her to Rodney Street. Dim as the light was. Barker at once 
recognized the quiet little girl, who had sat all day in the corner ot 
the carriage, unspoken to and speakinjr to nobody. It was impos- 
sible to answer her morosely. What remains may be briefly told. 
There being but one coach for all, the bachelor of the Albany ar- 
rived that night in Abercromby Square in the amiable but novel 
character of escort to old Mrs. Briscoe and the lazy, fat Letty, hav- 
ing also extended his gallant attentions to the little ffirl, whom no- 
body cared for; given her a seat in the carriage (much to Betty’s 
annoyance), 'and dropped her at the house in Rodney Street, where 
she begged to be set down. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Spread to her husband, soon after the arri- 
val, “ did you ever see anybody so altered and improved as Mr. 
Barker?— only think of his insisting on carrying Mrs. Briscoe’s sac- 
de-nuit.” 


CHAPTER VIll. 

Praise the gods, and make triumphant fires. 

Cw’iolanus. 

A Winter’s Night in Mrs, Spread’s Drawing-Room— How it was 
Furnished— Picture of Mrs. Spread Reading — Mr. Barker and 
Mr. Spread Make themselves Comfortable, and Wrangle at their 
Ease — The President’s Message— Mr. Barker Quarrels with 
Pico, the Lap-dog— The Critic on the Hearth — A Whist Party 
Extraordinary, and an Invitation to a Miser’s House-warming. 

It was a delicious winter’s evening, not on the actual banks ot the 
Mersey (for the banks ot the river at no season are particularly 
charming), but in Mrs. Spread’s drawing-room. Indeed, it is only 
in such places that the evenings in winter are delicious, unless you 
are an astronomer in quest of a new planet, a meteorologist observ- 
ant of auroras, or an experimentalist with the rain-gauge. But in 
snug rooms, by the side ot “triumphant fires,’’ couched on sofas, 
or squatting on stools, a meadowy carpet under your feet, books in 
profusion, the walls mirrored and pictured, the windows closely 
curtained, the eye comtorted with warm colors, and the ear glad- 
dened with social sounds, the most superb evening in June is noth- 
ing to one in December, al ways assuming the heart to be in the right 
place, the mind to be tranquil, and enough in the exchequer to 
wind up the year’s accounts to yoiit own credit and your creditors’ 
satisfaction. Never hearken to those w^ho talk of money having 
nothing to^ do with happiness; it has a great deal to do wdth it, a 
great deal indeed. People certainly may be very rich and very un- 
comfortable — the'Narrowsmiths were signal instances — but to com- 
bine the lot of poverty with the state of enjoyment, is as difficult a 
problem as to square the circle or ascertain the longitude at sea. 
The world is an oyster, to be opened with cold iron, if there is no 
other way; but use a silver knife if you can get one., 


THE -BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY, 


39 


The apartment in question was half drawing-room, half library, 
and spacious enough tor both purposes. It was quietly rich and 
sensibly luxurious. There were chairs of all forms, with arms and 
■without arms, with long legs and short legs, with high backs and 
low backs, straight backs and crooked backs, French chairs for 
fairies, American chairs for fidgets, elbow-chairs for old gossips, 
and priedieus for young ones. Among the rest was a Gothic chair 
of black oak, descended from the days of tire Plantagenets, t\’hich, 
being as incommodious as it was ancient, was never occupied, save 
by Air. Owlet, who thought it the most delicious chair in the house. 
The tables were also numerous, some of marble, for bronzes and 
alabasters; some of ebony, for knickknacks; a nest of spiders, for 
embroidery or chess; an oblong table for vagrant books and slip- 
shod literature of all kinds, annuals, quarterlies, monthlies, and 
weeklies; and a round table at which the Spread girls alternately 
made the best tea in England, and the best coliee out of France. It 
the room had a fault, it was the labyrinth of tables, couches, chairs, 
stools, screens, and musical instruments, that made it occasionally 
as difficult a thoroughfare as Fleet Street. You sometimes desired 
to have the liiot Act read to disperse a little monster meeting of 
stools, and now and then wished a devotion-chair at the deuce. But 
there was always a space kept tolerably clear in the front of the fire, 
a little-arena in which you could expatiate freely without oversetting 
a screen or knocking your shin against the claw of the table. This 
little open ground, overlaid with a rug as thick as a jungle (a rug 
in which Pico, the Italian greyhound, and a kitten belonging to 
the children, which on great festivals was admitted into the drawing- 
room by special license, were invisible, when they chose to lie down, 
all but the tips of their ears), was flanked by two sotas, while, front- 
ing the fire, which truly deserved the epithet in the motto, it was 
bounded by two, and sometimes three chairs, capacious and pro- 
found enough for the portliest doctor of the drowsiest hall in Ox- 
ford. The sofa on the right was the throne of the mother of the 
family; there she wrote her letters, received her visitors, conversed, 
with her friends, and chatted with her children. There she read a 
trreatdeal — travels, memoirs, histoiy, reviews, nowand then a novel; 
but she never did needle-work, lay or ecclesiastical— never so much 
as hemmed a handkerchief tor her husband, or embroidered a fald- 
stool for an Oxonian chapel. She left all that to her daughter Au- 
gusta, who was the most industiious embroiderer in Needledom. 
There was nothing comelier or handsomer in all motherhood than 
Airs. Spread, as she sat, with a small table beside her, support- 
ing a candle-lamp, upon that rosy, cozy sofa, a narrow bandlet of 
pearls crowning her serene temples, and the redundant folds of her 
dark velvet dress sweeping the carpet in a vast circle, that kept all 
but the privileged at a deferential distance from her person. She 
was glancing that evening over the pages of a little volume refulgent 
in red and gold; it was the new Christmas book of the author of 
the “ Pickwick Papers,” which Mr. Spread had brought dowm with 
him from London. 

Mrs. Briscoe- and Mrs. Backer are arrived. The former is im- 
mersed in eider-down on the sofa opposhe toAIrs. Spread, chatting 
with Augusta about coughs and colds (in which she is profoundly 


40 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

learned), and exceedingly anxious about the uvulas and tracheas of 
Lancashire. 

Mr. Barker is already engaged in a political argument vrith his old 
friend, in which he is taking up a position he never took before in 
his life, merely t>ecause Spread has taken the opposite ground. They 
nre seated in colloquial propinquity on two ot the doctoral chairs 
facing the fire; the one serene, but animated; the other in wonder- 
ful good humor, considering the events ot the day, but still pugna- 
cious enough in all conscience. Behind the doctoral chairs, upon a 
circular ottoman, are the two Smylys, half afraid ot Barker, whom 
they never saw before; but they still laugh merrily enough at inter- 
vals, whatever it is that Philip Spread and Mr. St. Leger are saying 
to amuse them. Philip is always confounding one girl with the 
other, and no wonder, for they are as like as two pins, “ particularly 
Laura,*’ as Mr. St. Leger has just facetiously observed. Mrs. Mar- 
tin has not yet descended from the higlier regions ot the mansion, 
where she has been consigning her trocked and trousered subjects to 
the charge of the maid, who, in her turn, will consign them to Mor- 
pheus. But not a step bed ward will ooy or girl go, until the zoolog- 
ical garden in the box has been visited and revisited — the bear made 
to growl, the pig to grunt, the ass to bray, and the lion to roar. On 
other occasions, the rod would restrain this untimely zeal in the 
study ot natural history, but it is the Saturnalia of the Christian 
world, and the ivy and mistletoe have superseded the birch. Seated 
on a stool at her mother’s teet is the silent Elizabeth (tor it is Au- 
gusta’s turn to minister at the tea-table), reading a letter, and cha- 
grined at its contents. It has cotne from her tractarian swain, to 
explain and excuse his absence; he has obstinate men to deal with; 
he meets with new difficulties daily; fears that the resuscitation of 
Ihe ecclesiastical drama must be postponed to another year, and has 
his thoughts evidently more engaged with Balaam and his ass than 
with Elizabeth and her love. 

Elizabeth, having read the dispatch of her untaithtul shepherd, 
and tried to convince herself that he was better employed at Salis- 
bury, advancing the cause ot theatricals and truth, than at Liver- 
pool paying the hackneyed attentions ot an intended, put the letter 
into her mother’s hands — there was nothing, indeed, in any love-let- 
ter of Owlet's that might not have been read in the High Street of 
Oxford— and, gliding across the room, seated herself beside her sis- 
ter, who wanted her support, in consequence of the enlargement 
ot the tamily circle. Presently, Miss Spread, with the tinkling of 
a spoon upon a salver (her father called it the President’s Message), 
announced the completion oi her arrangements, when — 

“ Gnllrrrlr— gnlrrr— gnlrr — ” 

This was not a remark in the Welsh tongue, tor there was no 
native of the principality in the room, nor any one acquainted with 
its language, not even Mrs. Martin, who was so great a linguist; it 
was the peevish observation ot Pico, the little gre 3 diound, in repl}^ 
1o an unintentional notice which Mr. Barker, WMlh his foot, in 
rising, took of his sensitive tail, as he lay snug on the rug before 
the fire. Mr. Barker started, looked very cross, and muttered 
something about wild beasts in a drawing-room, which Pico seemed 
almost to comprehend, for he uttered another “ Gnllrrr— gnllrr— ” 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 41 

and suddenly retreated, with his fierce little black eye fixed on the 
equally irritated bachelor, under the ample covert ot Mrs. Spread’s 
velvet, where he still continued to snarl. Mrs. Spread rebuked and 
threatened to chastise Pico, but the ottoman tittered audibly, the 
Smyly girls being unable to control their mirth at the skirmish be- 
tween the two Barkers. 

“ Let us go to the tea-table,’’ said Mr. Spread, opporiunely, 
taking his friend by the arm. “ Come, St. Leger. Mrs. Briscoe^ 
Jet me conduct you. Come, Philip— chairs tor the Miss Smylys. 
- We are invited to the ‘ storied urn.’ ’’ 

“And not without ‘the animated bust,’ sir,’’ said the young 
Irishman, gallantly. He was handling a chair to Adelaide Smyly, 
as he spoke, and the compliment might have been designed for her; 
or it might have been meant for the president ot the tea-table; for 
both had superb figures (the charms in which the women of Eng- 
land surpass the world), and St. Leger, though nothing of an artist, 
had an eye for the line of beauty. 

Mrs. Spread never went to the tea-table; she rarely stirred from 
her place beside the fire; she called herself a fire-worshiper, and 
her husband used to say she was a locofoco. 

Barker w\as excessively amusing, without having the slightest in- 
tention to divert the company. The Spread girls thanked him lor 
the assistance he had given their papa in his researches after the 
villa on the Thames. Augusta inquired it he did not love river 
and forest scenery. 

“ I am neither a Triton nor a Bobin Hood," replied the bachelor, 
“ 1 am quite content with the Serpentine and the scenery of Picca- 
dilly.” 

“ But though you are not a Robin Hood,” said Mr. Spread, “ I 
don’t think, Barker, you would object any more than myself to 
pass a jovial hour with Friar Tuck under the green-wood tree.” 

“ Friar Tuck, were he living, would willingly exchange the 
green-wood tree tor the Star and Garter. That’s the true charm of 
Richmond.” 

“ But the associations of that beautiful neighborhood,” said Mrs. 
Martin, didactically; “ 1 mean the literary associations, Thompson, 
Pope—” 

“Whom nobody reads,” interrupted Barker; “people read 
Wordsw’orth and Tennyson, but they don’t read Dryden and Pope. 
Inform the public that Alfred Term 5 'son smoked a dozen cigars in 
the park, or on the terrace, and the association will bring some few 
pilgrims. But of the thousands who flock to Richmond by omni- 
buses, railways, and steamers, week-day or Sunday, nobody thinks 
ot Alexander Pope more than of Alexander Selkirk.” 

“Very true, generally speaking,” said Mr. Spread; “however, 
we are a strong Popish party in this house.” 

“But 1 engage there is a Wordsworthian interest,” said the 
bachelor, “ a lambkin and donkey party.” 

“ Indeed, there is,” said Mrs. Spread, laughing, “ and a Tennysoii 
faction, too.” 

Philip Spread avowed himself a Wordsworthian; Augusta de- 
clared herself a Tennysonian, and was supported by Adelaide 
Smyly, who honestly confessed she had never read a line of the 


42 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


bard of Twickenham, except the “ Messiah,” which she had learned 

by task-work at school. - i i 

‘‘ How 1 detested the nymphs of ‘ Solyma! 1 was regularly pun- 
ished with Pope once a week. ” , . 1 HT- 

“ As Elizabeth and 1 were with the church-catechism by Miss 

Stanley,” said Philip. _ c. i ^ ^ i 

“ 1 was luckier than Adelaide,” said Laura Smyly, lor 1 was 
corrected with ‘ Montgomery’s Satan,’ and ‘Pollock’s Course of 
Time.’ My unpleasant associations are all connected with poetry 
of that order.” 

“ Quite right to make the birch disagreeable, said Mr. Spread, 
” but it is too bad to make young people hate roses and myrtles by 
making rods of them, eh, Mrs. Martin? - 

‘‘ Really,” said Mrs. Martin, smiling at this appeal to her school- 
room experience, ” I think 1 shall take a hint from the method 
pursued with Miss Laura Smyly, and cultivate a just taste in poetry 
by using the trash of the present day for a system of secondary 

punishments.” . , , 

“ Do,” said St. Leger, laughing; ” whip Theodore well with the 
^ Omnipresence.’ ” 

“ Give him the ‘ Excursion ’ smartly,” said Barker. 

■” Or ‘ Bells and Pomegranates,’ ” said Laura Smyly. 

Lay both ‘ Mr. and Mrs. Browning ’ on him,” said St. Leger. 

‘‘Would you call that a secondary punishment?” said Mrs. 
Spread, from the sofa. “ But, tell me,’ Mr. Barker, have you read 
this charming little red book?” alluding to the Christmas present 
which she held in her hand. 

“ I never read cither red books, green books, or blue books,” said 
the bachelor, ‘‘ sentiment, sedition, or statistics.” 

‘‘ Do you approve the modern system of illustrating works?” 

‘‘ A good pen doesn't want the help of the pencil,” said Barker, 
“ and a bad pen is not the better for it. Time was, Mrs. Spread, 
when books were illustrated by wit and common sense.” 

“ And now,” said Laura Smyly, completing the antithesis, not, 
perhaps, without a wish to please Mr. Barker, ‘‘ and now they are 
only illustrated by Crookshank.” 

The bachelor did look pleased, and animated by Miss Smyly ’s 
support, jumped up from the table, strutted up and down the open 
area before the fire, and launched into a sweeping, indiscriminate 
attack upon the literature of the dajL in which there was, of course, 
a vast deal of unfair but amusing stricture, with a dash here and 
there of equally just and poignant remark. The company listened 
with profound atiention. At length Mrs. Spread desired to know 
what the bachelor thought of the “ Cricket on the Hearth.” 

“Now listen to the Critic on the Hearth,” whispered Laura 
Smyly to her neighbor. But as Barker turned to Mrs. Spread to 
answer her question, it unfortunately happened that he again trod 
upon Pico’s tail. Pico snapped at his toe, and would probably 
have bitten it it Mrs. Spread had not promptly interfered, by snatch- 
ing her favorite up, and correcting him on her lap with a tortoise- 
shell paper knife. This done, she desired Philip to pull the bell for 
a servant to remove both the greyhound and the kitten. A footman 
obeyed the summons, and at the same time presented his mistress 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAl^Y. 43 

Yith a note, which turned the conversation of the evening into an- 
other channel. 

It was a note in a showj’^ blue envelope, smelling of musk, with a 
seal of pink wax, bearing the sentimental and original device of a 
Cupid shooting at a heart. It was evidently a note of invitation, 
but a very uninviting one, indeed. Tire girls watched their mother’s 
countenance as she opened it, and looked inquisitive. 

“ The Narrowsmiths!” said Mrs. Spread, with the gesture of a 
person suffering with intense cold, and dropping the note on the 
sofa, as she might have dropped a lump of ice, or a cold pebble. 

“ Dinner!” said her husband, also seized with a shuddering. 

” Worse,” said the lady. 

‘‘ Worse!” repeated Spread, as it he could imagine nothing worse 
than a dinner at the Narrowsmiths’. 

” A house warming! New Year’s Day.” 

” House-warming !” cried the father of the family. 

” House-warming!” repeated the daughters. 

‘‘A house-warming at the Narrowsmiths’!” exclaimed Philip — 
” of all kinds of entertainment — imagine the Narrowsmiths giving 
a house-warming, the Narrowsmiths, who know less about cale- 
factor}'- arrangements and thermal comforts than any family in 
England. ” 

‘‘Calefactory arrangements and thermal comforts,” repeated 
Laura Smyly, laughing. ” What hard words, Philip, you do use — 
do tell us wiiat they mean?” 

*‘ The arrangements for heating a house, to be sure; supplying it 
with warm air and water.” 

“■Why, then, not say so in plain English, Philip?” Barker be- 
gan to conceive a favorable opinion of Laura Smyly from this suc- 
cessful sally. 

Mr. Spread now drew his chair close to his fair wife, and they 
talked awhile apart on the subject of the menaced hospitality. 

” We won’t go, of course,” said the wife, suppliantly, 

” 1 fear we must,” said the husband; ” remember, my love, we 
declined their invitation at Michaelmas.” 

‘‘ We shall get our death of cold,” said Mrs. Spread. 

” We'll muffle well, my dear, parlicularly as it’s a house-warm- 
ing,” he added, his eye twinkling with bumor. 

“Muffle,” repeated his wife, as it she thought that all the 
muffling in the house would not be enougti for a dinner with her 
husband’s partner in the month of January. 

“ Well, my dear, we have till morning to consider the question. 

1 grant you it is a serious one— a very serious question — but now 
for our whist. Come, Mrs. Briscoe, you love your rubber— six- 
penny points. Come, St. Leger, you play.” 

But Mr. St. Leger either did not play, or preferred chatting with 
the girls, who were now re-established on the ottoman. 

They w^ere amusing themselves with a specimen or two of bad 
spelling in Mrs. Narrowsmith’s invitation. 

“ There is no excuse forbad spelling,” said Mrs. Martin, who was 
a disciplinarian in orthography. 

“ But some words are so difficult,” said Adelaide Smyly. 


44 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 

“ There is always a way ot evading them,” saiil St. Leger, ” as 
my countryman, (iiles Eyre, did.” 

‘‘ How did he manage?” inquired Barker. 

” A friend invited him to aine, and he wrote an answer excusing 
himselt on the ground of a fit of the gout. Some lime after, his 
friend met him, and expressed his surprise at his having had that 
complaint, as it was not in his lamil}'. ‘That’s the truth,’ said 
Oiles Eyre; ‘none of us ever had it in the memory of man.’ 
‘Then,’ asked his friend, ‘what did you mean by saying in your 
note that the gout prevented your dining with me?’ ‘Och,’said 
Giles, ‘ that’s aisily explained — would you have had me lose my 
lima rheumatism r " 

There was a good laugh at St. Leger’s story, and then Mr. Spread 
renewed his endeavors to make up a whist. 

‘‘ Laura Smyly plays.” said Augusta Spread. 

‘‘ Very little, sir,” said Laura, gayly; ” but I’m at your service 
if I’m wanting.” 

The Smyly girls were up to anything — girls of the world— no 
nonsense about them, extremely amusing and easily amused, the 
very girls for country-houses, buxom, handsome, frolifcsome, met- 
tlesome girls; they rode, w’alked danced, sung, and were boih cap- 
ital talkers and capital listeners, the latter a valuable accomplishment 
in both sexes, and a rare one. 

‘‘ But we want a fourth,” said Mr. Spread, counting his numbers. 

‘‘ Come, Barker, you must join us; Miss Smyly will not under- 
take dummy.” 

‘‘ Decidedly not, sir,” said Laura, laughing. 

Barker had no objection to cards, but he played whist vilely. 
Moreover, he was a little weary after the day’s journey, and was 
disposed to be refractory; but Miss Smyly had impres?-ed him fa- 
vorably by her rebuke of Philip, and he liked her all the better for 
the goed-humored alacrity with which she had consented to play. 
Determined by these considerations, he condescendingly sat down 
to play one rubber, everybody marveling to see him so gracious. 

Such a whist as it was! Miss Smyly and Mr. Barker versus Mrs. 
Briscoe and Mr. Spread. Everybody was deliffhted when Laura 
cut with Mr. Barker. But not one of the four players had the 
slightest real knowledge ot the game. Hoyle would have either 
laughed or wept, had he been a looker on. There was a reciprocal 
disclosure of hanas before three cards were played — at least, a 
whist-player of any acuteness might have concluded almost to a 
certainty how the several suits were distributed. 

‘‘ 1 suppose somebody has trumps,” said Mrs. Briscoe, commenc- 
ing the conversation. 

‘‘ 1 depend on my partner,” said Mr. Barker. 

‘‘ Don’t depend upon me, sir,” said Laura. ‘‘ 1 always hold such 
abominable cards — don't I, Adelaide? bhe doesn’t hear me, Mr. 
St. Ledger is so very amusing.” 

“ 1 say nothing,” said Mr. Spread, puffing his cheeRs and looking 
mysterious. 

‘‘ Have you no diamond. Miss Smyly?” 

Mrs. Briscoe had just played a diamond, and Laura had played 
a heart. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


45 


** Diamond— to be sure 1 have — lots ef diamonds.” 

“ We’ll forgive her this time,” said Mr. (Spread. 

‘‘ I’ll never do it again, sir,” said Laura. 

“ Until the next time,” added Barker, with a playful grunt. 

” I’m sure 1 thought nobody had diamonds but poor me,” said 
the old lady, ‘‘ where can all the spades be?” 

“I know somebody could answer that question,” said Miss 
Laura Smyly. 

” Spades are trumps, are they not?” asked Spread. Certainly, 
it is of great moment at whist to know which suit is the trump, but 
there is not a little disadvantage in postponing the inquiry until the 
middle ot the game. 

“ It makes very little difference to me,” said Mrs. Briscoe. 

‘‘ ISlor to me, ma’am,” said Laura. 

** Whist is a scientific game,” said Mr. Spread, revoking, as he 
spoke, in the most transparent manner, but nobody took the least 
notice ot it. 

‘‘ The rest are mine,” cried Barker; “ we made the trick.” 

” Pardon me. Barker, the trick is ours.” 

“ l ours — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — we make 
two tricks. ” 

” And you had three honors,” said Mrs. Briscoe, good-naturedly 
registering her adversary’s advantages. 

“Game!” cried Barker. 

” 1 held the queen,” remonstrated Mr. Spread; ” it fell to Miss 
Smyly ’s ace, and Mrs. Briscoe played the knave,” 

” Then we are only four,” said Barker, counting two by honors 
on the strength ot the ace and king. It passed sub silentio, and so 
ended the first hand. The remainder of the rubber, it may be 
supposed, was equally scientific. 

The Spread girls, Adelaide Smyly, Mr. St. Leger and Philip had, 
in the meantime, been very pleasant on the ottoman, or round about 
it. Philip was rallying Adelaide on her having rejected the ad- 
dresses of a certain Tom Unthank, the dwarfish and monkey-faced 
proprietor of an estate of three thousand a year in Herefordshire. 
Among other things, Philip warned her of what was proverbially 
said to be the fate of old maids — namely, to lead apes in a certain 
place not to be named to ears polite. 

” 1 don’t know,” said Adelaide, ” whether 1 shall lead apes or 
not in the other world, but no ape shall lead me in this, 1 promise 
you.” 

“ Bravo, Laura!” cried Philip. 

” My name is Adelaide, not Laura,” said the young lady, looking 
as if she w^as hurt by Philip’s blunder. He was very much annoyed 
at having made it; it was the third time that evening he had con- 
founded the sisters. 


46 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


CHAPTER IX. 

I am the merry wanderer of the night. 

Midsummer NighVs Ih'eam. 

The Dispersion— Mrs. Briscoe’s Anxieties about lazy Letty— The 
Smyly girls at Beauty-set— Mr. Barker in bed— The Watches 
of the Night— Mrs. Briscoe’s nocturnal Attentions to the 
Bachelor— Breaktast—Appearanceof Owlet— The Pie of Pies— 
How Owlet ate it — Results of Mrs. Briscoe’s Activity — Petrarch 
and Laura — What detained Mr. Owlet— Rehearsal of the Mir- 
acle Play of Balaam — Revival ot an Eremitical Institution. 

Now took place the dispersion to bedrooms and dressing-rooms; 
the time was come for exchanging silks for dimities, and the arts of 
the milliner for the simplicity of nature. 

“ 1 dare say my poor Letty is asleep long ago,” said good Mrs. 
Briscoe to Elizabeth Spread, as that young lady attended her up- 
stairs. 

“ I’ll send mamma’s maid to you,” said Elizabeth. 

“ No, no, Bessie, my dear, 1 can go to bed very well without as- • 
sistance; I’m used to it, my dear.” 

Elizabeth marveled, if such were the case, why Mrs. Briscoe 
incurred the trouble and expense of keeping a lady’s-maid. As they 
moved along a corridor, the repose of some very industrious sleeper 
was painfully audible, and Mrs. Briscoe instantly recognized her 
poor Letty. 

” Poor thing, she is not well,” said the tender-hearted mistress; 

‘‘ the journey was too much for her; how heavily she sleeps. 
Wouldn’t you say, my dear, she was feverish?”— pausing, and 
hearkening with attention to the nasal performance of the slumber- 
ing maid. 

‘‘ 1 should say, ma’am, she is very sleepy. Good-night, dear Mrs. 
Briscoe.” 

And Elizabeth went her way to the room she shared with her 
sister Augusta, paying the Smyl.ys a short visit en passant, and a 
merrier pair of lasses, at beauty-set, than Adelaide and Laura, were 
not to be found north or south ot Trent. Adelaide w^as maid to 
Laura, and Laura was maid* to Adelaide. How they rated one an- 
other about broken laces and tangled bobbins, tapped and slapped 
each other with fans and bouquets, bandied charges of inattentions 
and depredations; wished each other married, called each other 
geese, and having said and done every thing gay and girlish, foolish 
and funny, how they made a race for bed, as the last up was always 
to put out the candle. They almost died laughing when they heard • 
ot Mrs. Briscoe’s anxieties for the health of Letty. 

“1 only wish she was asleep herself,” said Elizabeth; “1 tear 
she won’t sleep to-night at all, she took such very strong tea.” 

” Why did Augusta give it to her?” asked Laura. ” She'll de- 
cidedly walk to-night,” speaking of Mrs. Briscoe as if she was a 
spirit. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


47 


1 hope and trust she will visit Mr. Barker.” 

” What fun it would be,” cried the other. 

” Do you remember her at Uncle Bedford’s, Laura?” said Ade- 
laide. “ She was always watching the watch-dog, nursing my 
aunt’s nurse-tender, and doctoring the apothecary’s boy at Rich- 
mond. And such an ear as she had for a mouse in a close! — ” 

” Or a bow-wow in the yard,” added Laura, jumping into bed. 
“Good-night, Elizabeth. Adelaide, bolt the door before you put. 
out the candle.” 

Mr. Baiker, meanwhile, was slumbering not quietly but deeply. 
He reviewed, before he slept, the occurrences of Ihe day, and found 
several departures from the fixed principles of his life to upbraid 
himself with; he had suffered himself to be betrayed into several 
instances of bonhomie, had behaved more as became Mr. fc?pread 
.than Mr. Barker; in short, though he had not sinned altogether in- 
tentionally, he felt lowered in his own esteem, and made a thousand 
resolutions to be more inflexibly unamiable for the future. It may 
well be supposed he did not forget, among other subjects of dis- 
agreeable reflection, the boorish simpleton in search of an uncle, 
with whom he had traveled part of the day. But the more he 
thought about him, he felt less and less uneasy, and even began to 
laiigh at himself lor being so very weak, as even for a moment to 
fancy it possible, or even probable, that there could be ary con- 
sanguinity between them. Fear makes men as credulous as hope; 
and if he w^as to live in dread of being claimed as an uncle by the 
son of every man who chose to die in the colonies, a very harassing 
life he -would have of it. All this was mighty well as long as he 
remained awake, but Queen Mabis, of all ladies, theleast trammeled 
by logical rules, and accordingly, no sooner did Mr. Barker fall 
asleep than there was an end to all sound reasoning, and he went 
through a series of imaginary persecutions (exaggerations of the real 
annoyances of the day) from a monster, in shape between a man 
and a bear (but sometimes taking the form of Rico), who im isted on 
being related to him in some shocking and inexplicable manner. 

But Mab was not Barker’s onl}" female visitor that night. Mrs. 
Briscpe, having dosed her maid (who had no other fever than that 
whicli she might well have caught from the pile of blankets over 
her) with a bottle whicli was to be taken every third hour, had 
promised to return in due time to administer the second draught, 
and had arranged that, should Mistress Letty be asleep, she would 
leave a light in her room, and also her owm watch, so as to enable 
the poor thing (whose only complaint was laziness) to help herself 
to the contents of the bottle during the rest of the night. Proceed- 
ing, about two o’clock in the morning, to carry this design into ex- 
ecution, she found her watch out of order, and it immediately oc- 
curred to her to borrow a watch from one of the Smyly girls. Mrs. 
Briscoe slept so little herself, that she had no idea of the value set 
upon sleep by other people, or what a grievance it is to have it 
'Chased from the eyelids wantonly. 

Tap, tap, tap, went the old lady’s knuckles. 

Iso repfy; the sisters were sound asleep. 

Tap, tap— -louder than before. 

Laura awoke, and turned upon her side. 


48 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


Tap, tap, affaiij went the knuckles. 

Laura sat up in the bed, and inquired, who was there. 

“ Only me— Mrs. Briscoe, my dear; the door is bolted, ray dear.**’ 

“ We are in bed, Mrs. Briscoe; we are, indeed— what is the mat- 
ter?” 

‘‘I^othing; don’t be frightened, dear. 1 only want the loan or 
your watch. Letty has to^take her bottle every third hour; 1 hope 
and trust she will be better in the morning.” 

Laura was highly exasperated, but got up, opened the door, and 
handed Mrs. Briscoe what she wanted, wishing both her and her 
patient devoutly with a certain spiritual personage more eminent 
for his talents than his virtues. 

The old lady trotted off with the watch, and, mistaking doors, 
entered Mr. Barker’s room instead of Letty’s. Tne rooms were 
similar in size and furniture, and, by the dim lieht which the taper 
gave (only, in fact, making darkness visible), there was no very 
striking difference between the bachelor and the maid, buried a& 
both were under huge mountains of bed-clothes. The old lady, ac- 
cordingly, having listened to Barker’s breathing, and carefully 
tucked him in, deposited tire light (with a bottle and a spoon) on a 
small table which stood at the side of the bed, shrouded by the 
curtains; and, having placed the watch in a convenient position 
(not observing Bnrker’s watch, which was lying there too), retired 
noiselessly, highly satisfied with herself for all her benevolent ar- 
rangements. But several hours afterward, growing fidgety again, 
and thinking that the watch would be of more use to herself than 
to Letty, she returned, tucked Barker in again with the utmost ten- 
derness and carried off his watch instead of Miss Smyly’s, which it 
resembled extremely. The man-servant who came to the bach- 
elor’s room at eight o’clock the next morning (and a thoroughly 
English winter’s morning it was, not very distinguishable from 
night) removed the candlestick, with the bottle and spoon; and 
when Mr. Barker rose, and had completed his toilet, he took up 
the watch which he found on the table, placed it in his waistcoat 
pocket, and went down to breakfast. Mrs. Briscoe, on her part, 
before she went down, was very particular in returning Miss Laura 
Srayly her property, or what she believed to be such. 

On entering the parlor. Barker had the pleasure of being intro- 
duced to Mr. Owlet, who had arrived during the night. He was a 
tall, slender, grave, absent man, under thirty years of age, with 
long face and sallow complexion; his eyes small and abstract, diffuse 
hair, capacious mouth, and a voice as hollow and spectral as if it 
came out of the depth of those remote ages in the study of which’^ 
he passed his life. A long, black frock, descending almost to hiS' 
ankles, was the only remarkable part of his dress, 

Mr Spread’s was the house for a breakfast; and, as Christmas ia 
the time for good cheer at all hours, you may conceive what a 
breakfast Mr. Spread’s was. None of your flimsy town breakfasts, 
only fit for invalids and women, exhausted rakes and faded beau- 
ties; but the jolly, substantial breakfast of men of business, in the 
fullness of health and the plenitude of spirits. It was a breakfast of 
many breads and many meats, substantial as the prosperity and 
various as the resources of England. A sideboard, oppressed with 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBAHY. 49 

viands, neither sighed noi groaned, because it. is only in fiction that 
sideboards utter sucti sentimental sounds. Mahogany commands 
its feelings to admiration; but if oppression could have wrung a 
sigh from a sideboard, the effect would have been produced that 
naerry morning. In the center stood, or, rather, towered, a vast 
pie, which was surrounded with minor attractions, such as tongues, 
fowls, collars, and marmalades, just as a great planet is attended 
by a body-guard of satellites. JBut as Jupiter excels his moons, so 
did that pie surpass collars, fowls, tongues, in magnitude and glory. 
That was a pie indeed! a subject for hymn and history ; a pie to be 
held in such reverence as Mohammedans pay the Caaba, or Chris- 
tians the chapel of Loretto — evidently the production of a great 
artist, a Palladio of pastry, or a Wren of cooks. It was more an 
Acropolis or a temple than a pie; worlhy'^ of being served to a lord 
abbot, amid anthems; not made to be opened with knife of Sheffield, 
but carved with blade of Toledo or Damascus. It might have beerk 
considered as a poem, a composition of talent and turke.ys, of gen- 
ius and grouse. Into such a pie was it that Bion, the. philosopher, 
wished himself metamoiphosed, that wisdom, in his form, might 
captivate the sous of men. Stubbles had been thrashed, covers 
ransacked, wmods depopulated, and preserves destroyed, to furnish 
forth its mighty concave. It was a pie under whose dome yon 
would have wished to live, or been content to die. Appetite grew 
by feeding on it; its very sight was better than to eat aught else eat- 
able. It dilated the soul and exalted the character to be in the same 
room with so noble a creation of gastronomic mind. 

When that pie was in ruins it reminded those who beheld it of 
the Coliseum. 

Spread ate it festively. 

Barker ate it critically. 

Philip Spread ate it transcendentally. 

Mr. Owlet ate it medisevally and monastically, and a right hearty 
way it is of eating a Christmas pie, let me tell you. How he did 
eat it — with an appetite like zeal, with a zeal like fanaticism! Aa 
to the ladies, they only breathed its incense, and it was a meal, 
which, with coffee and toast, was solid enough for them. 

Breakfast had not long commenced, when Mr. Spread and Mr. 
Barker fell to comparing London time with Liverpool time, and 
Philip commenced a lecture on the lunar method of finding the 
longitude. Barker produced Miss Smyly’s watch, and Mrs. Spread, 
thinking it a pretty one, begged to see and examine it, 

“ It would be unfair to inquire who L, S. is?" said Mrs. Spread, 
observing those letters neatly engraved upon the case. 

" L. S. !’’ exclaimed Barker. 

“ A gift -from a fair lady, of course," said Mr. Spread. " Come, 

, Barker, never blush; Mrs. Spread gave nie a watch the week before 
*1 married her." 

Barker looked cross, and denied that there were any such letters 
on his watch; but the letters were there to speak for themselves. 

L S., in unmistakable characters; and the watch went round the 
table, so that everybody might see them. 

‘‘ I protest," cried Lama Smyly, when it came round to her, " it 
is extremely like mine.'' 


50 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


“It is yours,” exclaimed her sister, examimng it, “1 should 
know it anywhere.” 

“ Oh, ho!” cried Mr. Spread. 

“ And where is mine, then?” demanded Barker, in extreme per- 
plexity. 

“ And "Whose watch can 1 have got?” asked Laura, equally con- 
founded. 

“ It is easy to guess,” said Mr. Spread. * 

“ Mine! impossible!” protested the astonished and much em- 
barrassed bachelor; but there was no denying it — P. B. standing 
for Peter J:larker as palpably as L. S. stood lor Laura Smyly. 

“ 1 think Laura has lound a Petrarch,” said Mrs. Spread, aside 
to Adelaide; but Barker overheard it, and was very angry. 

As soon as Mrs. Briscoe’s participation in the transaction was 
known, the mysterious exchange was soon explained. It was food 
for mirth during the holidays; and Mrs. Briscoe’s narrative, aside 
to the girls, heightened the jest vastlj\ “ Only think,” she said, 
*' iny dears, of mj' tucking the gentleman in twice; but indeed he 
was very good-natured yesterday evening to poor Letty and me.” 

How Mr. Spread did "enjoy it; how he shook and laughed in his 
Rabelaisian chair and how mad it made the baccalaurean cynic! 

It was very scandalous of the Bev. Bartholomew Owlet — his in- 
timates called him Bat — not sooner to have joined the Christmas 
circle that assembled round the hearth of the generous Liverpool 
merchant. Mr. and Mrs. Spread w’ere both hurt by his conduct, 
though they said nothing. As to Elizabeth herself, who ought 
most to have resented the delinquency, she took the most merciful 
view of it imaginable, far, from uttering a harsh word, she never 
harbored a harsh thought of her intended, but argued herself into a 
firm belief that he who was so pious a priest could never prove an 
imfailhful shepherd. Mr. Owlet, how'ever, might very well have 
suspended his somber pursuits during the holidays: it "would only 
have been a reasonable sacrifice upon the altar of love— a shrine old 
enough, one would suppose, to command the veneration of the most 
enthusiastic antiquarian; but if he was tor bowers at all, it was tor 
ivy Powers; and he continued to mope in the cloisters of Salisbury 
until the old year w^as at its very last gasp, pcring over manuscripts 
and missals, planning the revival of tlie Miracle Plays and Myster- 
ies. and every now and then (accorapanie.d by his fiiend and fellow- 
laborer, Lord John Tore), “complaining to the moon ” of divers 
bishops and deans, whose wretched, low-church bigotry led them 
to regard with an unfavorable ej’^e the pious mummeries that diver- 
sified the religion of the chivalrous and feudal times. 

Lord John^Yore was the son of the Duke of Gonebye, a member 
of the House of Commons, furious to repeal the laws "of mortmain, 
and as mad about Maypoles as Lord Dudley Stuart is about Poles. 
Lord John believed in nothing more strenuously than that the glory 
of England fell with the monasteries, and that a statesman could 
propose to himself no nobler object than to propagate a monkish 
spirit, and remove the obstacles thrown by the barbarous policy of 
Protestantism in the way of the re-esfablishment of the religious 
houses. He had failed once or twice in experiments of his own to 
get up little priories in difierent places, as models for larger institu- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


51 


tions, and to direct the stream of public opinion into the same de- 
vout, channel ; but, undeterred by his ill-success, he was now en- 
gaged, with only redoubled ardor, in a similar undertaking upon a 
part of his father’s estate — namely, to organize a peculiar species of 
eremitical institution of the most venerable antiquity; it consisted 
of a collection of cells, at some small distance from each other, 
each hermit having his own, and providing for himself apart, the 
reverse of the usual conventual system. Several “ egregious clerks ” 
of Oxford, and two or three laymen of the Coningsby school, had 
already applied for admission into this new fraternity. But Lord 
John’s warmest supporter was Elizabeth Spread’s lantastic lover, 
and he, in his turn, received from Lord John the most cordial aid 
and encoiirgement in his battles with deans and chapters, to over- 
come their narrow prejudices against the conversion of cathedrals 
into play-houses. His lordship, indeed, went further than merely 
advocating Owlet’s views, for he actually engaged himself to be 
one of the reverend gentleman’s coi'ps dramatique, and promised to 
take the part of the quadruped in the miracle play of “ Balaam,” 
in case no spiritual person was to be found disposed to appear in it. 
There had actually been a rehearsal in Owlet’s chambers, and the 
actors had complimented one another highly upon the nif^rits of 
their several performances. Ov^ let had a magnificent beard, and 
his noble friend a superb pair of ears. Several good hits w’ere 
made in the course of the piece, but the audience (consisting of 
some dozen of tractarian divines, friends of Owlet, and Young- 
England men, cronies of Lord John), were particularly delighted 
when it became Owlet’s duty to smite his beast, and the latter re- 
quested the prophet not to hit so hard. In fact, it was this rehearsal 
that detained the minor canon from paying his devoirs at the feet 
of his fair lady, who, perhaps, would not have been quite so toler- 
ant, had she known what sort of animal it was whose society he 
preferred to hers. * 

This important business, however, having been transacted, Mr. 
Owlet prepared to flit, and Lord John being also bound to the 
north, they agreed to meet on a certain evening in London, and 
travel together by the night-train to Liverpool, Had the home sec- 
retary issued a search-warrant on that occasion to examine the Ing- 
gaee of this eccentric pair, the officers employed would have made 
some extremely curious and amusing discoveries. In Owlet’s port- 
manteau would have been found the wild costume and enormous 
beard in which he sustained the character of Balaam, a change of 
hair-shirts, a discipline, a surplice, and a pacKet of letters, contain- ’ 
ing his correspondence with the Mayor of Salisbury, relative to a 
procession of Flagellants, which the active canon had been desir- 
ous some months before of exhibiting in the streets of that ancient 
city. 


52 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY, 


CHAPTER X. 

A wretched rascal, that will bind about 
The nose of his bellows, lest the wind get out 
When he's abroad. Sweeps down no cobwebs, 

But sells them for cut fingers, and the spiders, 

That cost him nothing, to fat old ladies’ monkeys. 

A slave and an idolater to Pecuuia. 

TJie Staple of News, 

Christmas in the House ot a Miser — Gripus and his Wife in Coun- 
cil — A Winter-piece— How Mrs. Narrowsmith affected the 
Thermometer — Who were to be asked to the House-warminjf — 
Proposition to invite the Bachelor to Tea — Isaac Narrowsmith 
resolves to give Champagne — His wife determines not to have 
Napkins — Character ot Mr. Narrowsmith — Their Tea-table — 
How Providence sent the Miser a Silver Fourpence. 

Very different were the Christmas doings in the house ot Mr. 
Spread’s partner, the new house of the Narrowsmiths in Rodney 
Street. No comfort, no cheer, no charity. Neither hearts nor 
hearths were warm. No pleasantry brightened the countenance — 
no fiiends thronged the table— no pie towered upon the board, chal- 
lenging attack, and throwing down the gauntlet to voracity. The 
house was a fair one enough — the rooms sufficiently large — all the 
permanent accommodations reasonably complete — but it was bleak 
and dreary; penurious fires drew forth the damp without dispelling 
the cold; stinted draperies gave easy access to the wintery* winds 
through the crevices of the windows; threadbare carpels left the 
floors as chill as those of vaults or warehpuses: deficient furniture 
of mean quality, grim without antiquity, and rigidly excluding all 
the warm colors, consummated the dreary effect, and made it one 
of the last houses of the land (of houses roofed and glazed) in 
which anybody in good-humor with himself and the world would 
wish to entertain his friends, or be entertained by them. Every- 
thing in Rodney Street was managed upon the greatest possible re- 
trenchment and the least possible comfort principle. Nothing was 
on a large scale but shabbiness; there was abundance ot nothing 
but bad wine in the cellar and cold water on the table. This shiver- 
ing and starving went, of course, as usual, by the specious name of 
economy, whereas it was extravagance and w^aste of the most ab- 
surd kind, for there are two ways of squandering the gifts ot fort- 
une; they may be wasted in avarice as well as in prodigality, by a 
Naevius as well as by a Nomentanus. 

In a parlor, figuratively called a dining-room, by the side ot 
what, metaphorically speaking, might be said to be the fire, sat in 
domestic council Mr. Narrowsmith and his wife. It was quite a 
winter-piece. The painter, to take the picture, should have been 
one whose line was boors in a frost. The room looked funereal, as 
if it had been furnished by an undertaker, and a particularly 
gloomy one. The curtains, newly hung, were of some paltry drab- 
colored stuff, and as much too narrow and too short as it was pos- 
sible to make them, without their ceasing to suggest the idea that 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 53 

they Vere designed for curtainB. A wretched Kidderminster, the 
more wretched for being new like the curtains, and much too 
small for llie space to be covered, had been violently stretched and 
tortured with lacks to make the most of it; and when the most 
was made, it left a b oad track of board extending all round the 
apartment, as bare as the pavement in the street. This track was 
studded with dingy mahogany chairs, few and far between, ‘a dozen 
being required to do the duty of twice that number, like a garrison 
after a bloody siege. The shriveled lug on the iiearlh-slone made 
as poor an attempt to cover it as the tortured Kidderminster did to 
cover the floor The cold black stone was only about three quarters 
concealed by it. and a villainously meager cat — a cat as lean as Cas- 
sius — sitting right in the center of the rug, with her green eyes pen- 
sively fixed upon the grate, as it she w^as pondering upon the vice 
of avarice, plainly proved that not so much as a fat mouse did credit 
to Mrs. IMarrowsmith's housekeeping. 

Mr. Isaac Narrowsmith, a small, mean man, dressed in seedy 
black, with vulgar arithmetic in every line of his pinched and sal- 
low features; little, sharp, suspicious eyes, and a nose not worth 
talking about, having made up his little mind to give a miserable 
dinner, was now debating with his worthy consort upon the guests 
to be invited, and the cheap dishes and false wines to be imposed 
upon such as should honor their bad cheer. It was to be at once 
their annual dinner to the Spreads, and a feast to celebrate their re- 
moval to Rodney Street from the baser quarter of the town where 
they had previously resided. It harmony of tastes is a pledge ot 
happiness in the married state, Mr. and Mrs. Karrowsmith ought 
to have been happy as turtle-doves, for the lady was in her way, 
and in her departments, as pitiful and griping as the gentleman. 
They had but one soul between them, and that might have been 
lodged in a nut-shell. Mr. Spread (who as we have seen, was one 
of the few who now condescend to read Pope) used to call them 
Mr. and Mrs. Gripus; and Philip, being fresh from the study of 
mechanics, gave them the sobriquet of the male and female screw. 

Mrs. Karrbwsmith was a tall, muscular, harsh woman, with flat, 
square, pale, rigid, frigid features; she would have made an admi- 
rable matron o^ a work-house ora jail. When Mr. Isiarrowsmith 
married her, she was the widow of a rich planter in the West In- 
dies, and she looked like a woman who could brandish the whip 
and wallop her negresses. She was about as genial as an icicle, and 
as mild a creature as a white bear after a bad day’s fishing in the 
frozen seas. She was even harder, colder, and keener than her hus- 
band. The thermometer tell in her neighborhood; she actually ra- 
diated cold, and people who sat beside her got sore throats. She, 
had one good point, her hair — that was beautiful — a golden brown, 
and remarkably luxuriant; but, as it were, to compensate for the 
beauty, it was clumsily arranged; part held in awkward captivity 
by a comb of spurious tortoise-shell, part falling in graceless negli- 
gence upon a shoulder unworthy to receive it. Of the maternal air 
and aspect she had nothing. Who could fancy that dry, harsh, 
frigid woman suckling a babe? — though you could easily figure her 
to yourself chronicling small, very small, beer. 

Wbat this incomparable lady wore upon the present occasion she 


54 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

almost always wore, except when she appeared at j-etes. It was aa 
old black silk dress, which not a maid servant i^ Mrs. Spread’s 
house would have put on her back. It was very tight, very short, - 
and uot worth five shillings. Its shortness had the agreeable eftect 
of exhibiting stockings ot a very subdued white, and shoes that 
looked.as it "they had been made by her husband’s shoe-maker. 

“How many shall we have?’’ asked the miser, chafing his 
skinny fingers, preparing to count the list of his company upon 
them. “Ourselves, two; Maria, three—’’ 

Maria, or, more accurately, Maria Theresa, was the daughter 
ana only child of the Narrowsmiths. She was twenty-three, and 
too like her mother to he much ot a beauty, either in person or in 
mind; but she was loo young to aflect the thermometer in the same 
degree; besides, she had her mother’s hair; and, having been three 
years at a boarding-school (where she learned to thump pianos, and 
call it music, to bedaub paper, and call it painting in water-colors), 
was considered in her circle a highly- accomplished young woman. 
Of course she was a great, that is to say, a rich match. She had 
not herself thought much about matrimony, but her considerate 
parents had been speculating tor some time upon Philip Spread as 
an eligible husband for her. The Spreads had no notion that such 
a project was even in embryo. 

“Ourselves three, the Spreads five,” continued the penurious 
merchant. 

“ Only four Spreads- -three and four are seven,” said the lady. 

“ Seven— (he Neverouis won’t.” 

“ Ot course they won’t; the}’^ never dine out in winter.” 

Then wny did Mrs. Narrowsmith invite them? Simply because 
they never dined out in winter. 

“ What of the Marables?” 

“ The Marables keep New Tear’s Day with old Mrs. Marable at 
Birkenhead. Maria ascertained it; don’t they, Maria?” 

“ Yes, mamma,” replied Miss Narrowsraith. 

“ But you asked them?” continued Isaac. 

“ I did, of course. We were so long in their debt that 1 posi- 
tively felt ashamed. Now the compliment is paid, there’s a weight 
off my mind.” . 

“ Seven— George Voluble makes eight— the Crackenthorpes ten— 
Dr. and Mrs. Front twelve. Will General Guydickens come?” 

“\es, and Miss Guydickens— he never dines out without her, 
and we can’t do without the general’s man.” 

“ Fourteen,” said the miser, summing up. “ 1 have been think- 
ing it would be right to ask Mr. Spread’s friend, Mr. Barker.” 

“ Won’t it do to ask him to tea? The Reverend Mr. Thynne and 
Mr. Fitzroy, the commissioner, are only asked to tea. I’m told Mr. 
Barker is one ot your London fine gentlemen, who cock up their 
noses at everything, and can’t dine without champagne and nap- 
kins. You can’t be so infatuated, Mr. Narrowsmith, as to think of 
giving champagne?” 

The miser crossed his legs, twirled his thumbs, and looked very 
serious and miserable; thinking ot his partner’s dinners, and of 
what was likely to be expected from a man worth a hundred thou- 
sand pounds. Then Mr. Crackenthorpe was a railway prince, and 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 55 

General Guy dickens was a ^reat railway man, too, and a sort of a 
nabob into the bargain. Isaac Narrowsmith was actually so infatu- 
ated as to be thinking of giving champagne, with some little fluctua- 
tion in his mind as to the question whether his champagne should 
be I’rench or British. Conscience and vanity pronounced for the 
foreign article— avarice and meanness declared for our home 
produce. 

“Well,” said the female screw, divining the cogitations of her 
spouse as perfectly as if her soul was a portion of his, “ J always 
leave the wine to you— only tell me it you make up your mind to 
have champagne, that 1 may borrow Doctor Front's glasses.” A 
bit of forecast, on the part of the fair speaker, from which the reader 
will probably infer that Doctor Pi out’s table was not the most cele- 
brated in Liverpool for the jovial size of his goblets. 

“ Borrow them,” said Mr. Narrowsmith, with admirable economy 
of words, conveying both his determination to produce the sparkling 
wine, and his concurrence in his wife’s plan for restricting the con- 
sumption of it within the closest possible limits. 

“ 1 positively won’t have napkins, then,” said Mrs. Narrow- 
smith, her frugal mind jumping as nimbly as her husband’s from 
one sordid speculation to another. 

On the evening of the same day, the Narrowsmiths were at tea in 
the parlor described in the foregoing chapter, the drawing-rooms 
being too fine to be lived in, and accordingly reserved for state occa- 
sions — weddings, balls, and house-warmings! The tea made by 
Miss Maria Theresa was very different from that made by Augusta 
Spread. It was a different leaf — perhaps that of another tree alto- 
gether: its price was three and sixpence the pound, and it was ad- 
vertised and recorded in Messrs. Sloe and Twaukay’s list of teas as 
“ a good strong breakfast tea, earnestly recommended to the use of 
families and schools/' It was the very tea to be administered to 
Mrs. Briscoe; there was nothing in it to agitate the nerves, of to 
murder sleep, whatever other damage it might do the drinker’s 
constitution. The genial Mrs. Narrowsmitn had just finished her 
second cup of this innocent mixture, when two notes were handed 
her by a not over-clean or well-appointed lad, intended to enact a 
page, as appeared from the mullitude of tarnished buttons on his 
jacket — a jacket that was manifestly a resurrection in the jacket 
form of one of the oldest of his master’s old coats. The notes were 
presented on a salver made of one of those wonderful metals which 
<the public is assured by the patentees) is not only a “ perfect sub- 
stitute ” for silver, but more genuine than silver itself. 

Everything m the Narrowsmiths’ house was either second-hand 
or spurious; imitations, substitutes, things “ as good as new,” won- 
derful bargains, delft not to be distinguished from china, tallov; 
candles superior to wax, cottons equal to silk, “ old lamps tor new,” 
German silver and albata plate. 

One of the notes was from the. Spreads— an acceptance. With 
what reluctance was that note vsritten! The second was no sooner 
opened than it produced a sensation almost electric. It came from 
the family who had so cunningly been asked to dinner. Decause it 
was believed that they had accepted a previous invitation. The 
biters were bitten! The Marables were coming— all the Marables, 


56 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

Mr. and Mrs. MaraLle, Miss Marable, Miss Lucy Marable, and 
Master Frederic Marable— innumerable Marables; it was all a mis- 
take about their engagement lo Birkenhead The miser looked 
tragically comic, his lady looked comically tragic, and, as to 
Maria Theresa, notwillistanding her imperial name, she narrowly 
escaped having her ears boxed by her mild mamma, who, excited by 
the spirit of parsimony, was much more like Xantippe than her hus- 
band was like Socrates. 

Mrs. Narrowsmith said it was “ A nice to-do!” 

Mr. Xarrowsmith observed, in equally classic phraseology, that 
it was ” A pretty kettle of fish!” 

The mother said the daughter was “ a careless slut,” and she 
could hardly have chosen an adjective and substantive more happily 
describing that young lady had she been professor of rhetoric in the 
college of Billingsgate. 

The miser, as became his sex, was the first to recover his com- 
posure. 

‘‘It can be helped,” he said, philosophically, “we must only 
make the best of it.” 

“And after all,” said Maria Theresa, regaining confidence, “a 
dinner for twelve is a dinner for twenty — indeed, mother, 1 have 
heard you say so twenty times.” 

And in truth this was a doctrine which Mrs. Narrowsmith had 
frequently not only broached, but acted on, in her hospitable dispen- 
sations. 

“We shall have twenty, if all come,” said the merchant, lugu- 
briously. 

‘‘James, remove the tea-things,” said Mrs. Narrowsmith, with 
asperity. ‘‘Put that cold muffin carefully by; take care of the 
tea-leaves. Maria, go and look after the napkins — don’t leave more 
out than will be absolutely necessary: eighteen will do. M'ait till 1 
give a dinner and ball again! What are you looking at, Mr. Nar- 
rowsmith? Do you see anything on the floor?” 

The merchant had just fixed his little, keen eyes upon a small,, 
shining object at some distance from him, just where the tortured 
Kidderminster refused to go any further. Mrs. Narrowsmith 
directed her tolerably acute visual organs to the same point; but 
Mnria Theresa, who was leaving the room lo execute the commissiou 
respecting the napkins, not only discovered what the object was, 
but picked it up, proclaiming the important fact that it was a silver 
fourpence. Who could have dropped it there? Who could have 
been so profligately careless of their money? The Narrowsmitha 
disclaimed the ownership of the glittering fourpence, all of them; 
yet Mr. Nairowsmtih made no scruple of seizing it to his own uses, 
and depositing it in his pocket, observing to his wife as he did so — 

‘‘ How providential that I saw it.” 

This was, perhaps, the only sentiment bordering upon piety 
which escaped Mr. Narrowsmith’s lips during the entire of the 
sacred season, when, as ” sweetest Shakespeare ” says — 

“No planets strike, 

No faiiy takes, no witch has power to charm, 

So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.” 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY, 


57 


Isaac Narrowsmitli was a merchant plebeian, not a merchant 
prince; he had the faculties for acquiring wealth, without the talents 
or the virtues to enjoy it. He was as narrow-souled as he was nar- 
row-chested; efBcient' in his counting-house, out of itanobody; he 
had none of the genial qualities, none of the literary tastes, none of 
the social aispositions of his partner. Reach of mhid he was so de- 
ficient in, that he was always trying to overreach. With books he 
was totally unacquainted, save the waste book, the day-book, and 
the ledger; as to the arts, he was only versed in the mean ones and 
the only science he had ever studied was that false arithmetic which 
teaches men to be penny-wise and pound-foolish, Narrowsmilh 
was a man of illiberal opinions, whom circumstances attached to the 
Liberal party. He voted with the Whigs, but the Whigs could 
well have dispensed with his ungracious and discreditable support. 
He was a Reformer, who sneered at Lord John Russell; a free-trader, 
who made light of Mr, Cobden and Mr. Villiers. But with all his 
meannesses as a private individual, and all his worthlessness as a 
public man, he was the darling of the lady on the wheel; she smiled 
on him, pampered, cockered him; the work of his shriveled hands 
succeeded; all his speculations prospered. He speculated widely, 
and often daringljL in all manner of securities and insecurities; 
always wide awake upon ’Change, with an eye to the main chance, 
and never tor an instant diverted from his schemes of self-aggran- 
dizement by any consideration of humanity or sense of moral obli- 
gation. In short, he was not much of a Christian, although he 
went to church, but very much of a Jew, although he did not fre- 
<quent the synagogues. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Pennyhoy Senior.— "Who can endure to see 
The fury of men’s gullets and their stomachs? 

What fires, what cooks, what kitchens might be spared? 

What ponds, what parks, coops, garners, magazines? 

Hunger is not ambitious. What need had nature 
Of perfvuned napkins or of silver dishes? 

The Staple of News. 

The flight before the House- warming — Mrs, Narrowsmith com- 
pared to Agamemnon— A Miser’s Cook— Her Professional 
Career — Deeds without a Name- The Polar Exhibition — The 
Miser’s Company— A Cold Fire — Thirteen at Table — Who 
made the Fourteenth — A Monosyllabic Lady and a Dissyllabic 
Lady — Misconduct of Doctor Prout— Use of an Epergne — Pur- 
suits of Literature at a Dinner-Table — An Irish Row — Mr. 
Barker on Absenteeism — Mr. Barker charms Mr. Cracken- 
thorpe. 

The night before a dinner, in an establishment sorrily appointed, 
is only comparable in anxiety, bustle, and confusion to a night 
before a baUle— such a niirht as Homer describes as passed upon 
one occasion by the Gieek generalissimo, or thal wdiich preceded 
the figl't of Agincourt, so marvelously related by the chorus in the 
play of Henry the Fifth, In humble imitation of the gieat drama- 
tist, we must here give “a little touch ” of Mrs. Narrowsmith “ in 


58 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

the night,” not omilting to invoke ” a muse of Hre,” before we en- 
gage in so cold a subject. 

She first reviewed her hatterie de cuisine, wliich was not exactly 
in the state that M. Soyer would call efficient. She next inspected 
her cutlery, which, like bad writing, was sadly in want of brilliancy; 
but then, en revanche, it abounded in point, for the knives were be- 
ginning to look* exceedingly like skewers, as if nothing, even a 
knite, could escape the emaciating influences of so niggardly a 
house. Then she marshaled the spoons, missed a couple, and 
made a fuss and uproar about them, as if they had been made 
of the gold of Peru, instead of the silver of Germany. The 
plates and dishes were reconnoitered next, three plates were 
ctacked, two dishes were absent: perliaps they had absconded 
in company wu'th the spoons, taking a hint from the runaway dish 
in the nuiseiy rhyme, or prescient of the revolting uses to which 
their mistress meditated putting them. These preliminaries having 
been dispatched, and Mrs. Narrowsmith having settled in her own 
mind from whom she should borrow the many necessary articles 
which were not forthcoming from her own stores — who was to be 
drawn upon for plate, who for china, who was to lend an epergne,. 
who contribute a table cloth of the size requisite, and who was to 
accommodate her wuth a second pair of nut-crackers— this paragon 
of wives and pink of housewives proceeded, in company with her 
cook and her daughter, to lay the foundations of the several made- 
dishes (as she called them), which were to form the lateral orna- 
ments and attractions of the board. 

Mrs. Narrowsmith’s cook was as good a cook as was to be had 
for the wages which Mrs. Nairowsmith paid her. In personal 
neatness, in culinary talent, and in moral principle, she was just 
ihe kind of cook tiiat Swift had in his eye in those unlucky direc- 
tions of his to servants, which are almost the only directions that 
nine servants out of ten ever attend to. However, cook the lady was 
(tor she was as much a lady as her mistress), cook by office, pro- 
fession, and experience. She had ruled the roast for a Welsh par- 
son, which must have made her familiar with jovial diet; she had 
ministered in the kitchen of a half-pay captain of infantry, where 
she could not have failed to see lordly cheer; she had officiated for 
briefless barristers in lodgings, the best of all academies tor the finer 
branches of gastronomy, and she had already lived in the unctuoua 
service of the Narrowsmiths nearly four years, ample time to per- 
fect her education, particularly as the climate of the kitchen was 
never of that high temperature which must so materially enervate a 
cook’s frame, and embarrass her in the discharge of her focal 
duties. 

Such had been the career, such the fortunes, of the enterprising 
and accomplished Dorothea Potts (for that was the name ot the in- 
genious and exemplary woman), in concert with whom, alternately 
directing and airected, Mrs. Narrowsmith was now engaged in a 
variety of mysterious operations, over jars and saucepans, un- 
thought of by Glass, unimagined by Kitchener. It is sickening, 
nay, maddening, to think for a moment of the things that are oc- 
casionally eaten, or served up to be eatenj in Ihis carnivorous, her- 
bivorous, frugivorous, and omnivorous world, by the few who have 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 59 

the luck, or the ill-luck (as the case may be), to be boru under an 
eating star. 

There was tearful cooking that night in Rodney Street, mixtures 
of all things cheap and rancid, sweets that should have been sour, 
and sours that should have been sweet. Mrs. Narrowsmith manu- 
factured custards without precedent, Miss Narrowsmith fabricated 
puddings without example, while the soi disant cook concocted in- 
explicable gravies and appalling soups. A dropper-in during the 
orgies might well have cried, 

“ How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags. 

What is’t ye do?” 

and the trio might, with equal propriety, have replied, like the 
witches, 

“ A deed without a name.” 

The setting-out of the Spreads for Rodney Street, when the in- 
evitable hour came, was not unlike the departure of a crew of hardy 
adventures upon an overland journey to the pole. The muffling 
Avas prodigious; the demand for furs, flannel, inside-waistcoats, 
lambs’- wool’ hose, shawls, boas, all the warm clothiilg reconcilable 
with the semblance of dinner-dress, was very brisk indeed. Mr. 
Spread fortified himself with worsted stockings under the silk, and 
put on an additional shirt; Mr. Barker, who had with difficulty 
been prevailed upon to go at all, re-enforced his ordinary raiment 
with a. couple of supplementary vests; and Mrs. Spread looked quite 
portly in the voluminous petticoats which she thought it discreet to 
wear, starting, as she was, upon an expedition to the frigid zone. 
Mrs. Martin had not been invited even to tea, at which Mrs. 
Spread was much displeased; but the governess herself was very 
well content to stay at home, as she w’as never happier than when 
she was ruling her little kingdom, or composing some wwk upon 
the rights and prerogatives of woman. 

The table was spread for twenty, but the party that assembled 
was considerably under the mark, uf the formidable Marable fami- 
ly, only two, the old neople, made their appearance; they were the 
first arrivals; ihe little Spread faction were the next, Barker keep- 
ing close to Mrs. Spread, determined to have her for his neighbor 
at dinner. Then were announced IVlajor-general and Miss Guydick- 
«ns, the former a parched old East-lndiaman, rigid as a poker and 
dull as a door-post; his daughter a young lady six feet in altitude, 
with a neck like a crane’s, and competent to talk of nothing in the 
world but Dost Mohammed and her cousin Lieutenant Curry, who 
shot a tiger and wounded a hippopotamus. These were followed 
bv Doctor and Mrs. Front, who never entered a room together, Mrs. 
Front always hanging in the rear to adjust a preposterous cap, and 
stick the last pin in her stomacher. Then came Tom Voluble, who 
had not been two minutes in the room before he touched upon the 
weather, the funds, Irish distress, French politics, gun cotton, rot- 
ten potatoes, Fresident Folk, and Miss Cushman. The Cracken- 
thorpes were the last— they always were; Mr. Crackenthorpe 
blanied his wife, and Mrs. Crackenthorp blamed her husband; then 
Loth blamed their watches; and w’hile they w’ere thus occupied, 


60 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


dinner was announced by the gentleman in soiled gloves who acted 
butler upon ibis solemn occasion. The Narrowsmiths had madb 
no arranaements tor the pairing off ot the company, so there was a 
scramble of gentlemen for ladies, and this was fortunate for Barker, 
who secured Mrs. Spread for himself. Mr. Narrowsmith gave his. 
arm to Mrs. Crackenthorpe, because she was glowing in crimson 
and rubies. The Proutsand tlieMarables exchanged husbands and 
wives. Tom Voluble went oS chattering with the fair Maria 
Theresa, who was gorgeously attired in expectation of Philip 
Spread, and grievously chagrined at his non appearance. Philip 
had been formally and even pointedly invited to dinner, but pre- 
ferred accompanying his sisters and the Smylys to the evening- 
party. The never failing courtesy of Mr. Spread would have mode 
him offer his arm to the miser’s wife; even had she not been so re- 
fulgent as she was in yellow satin, with a turban on her head which 
would have electrified the streets ot Bagdad. But just as the portly 
merchant was advancing to execute his polite intention, Mr. 
CracUenthoipe stepped before him, and Spread had no resource but 
the graceful Miss GuydicKens, the cousin of the officer who shot, 
the tiger and wounded the hippopotamus. The East Indiaman went 
down to dinner alone, as it was often his lot to do. 

The Spreads had predetermined not to try the soups. However,, 
the Marables and Crackenthorpes seemed to think them excellent. 
Major-general Guydickens bellowed for cayenne- pepper; but there 
was none to be had for his oellowing, so he did without it, which, 
was very philosophical tor a major-general. 

Mrs, Spread, drawing her shawl well about her, took the interest 
of a curious observer of social phenomena in reviewing the array 
upon the lable; and she thought, upon the whole, that it looked 
surprisingly well: the cloth was whiter than she had anticipated, 
the glass brighter, and the argentine and albata did their best ta 
look silvery — what could albata and argentine do more? Then there 
was a splendid epergne, borrowed from the Fronts; it was stocked 
with evergreens— the ivy, the arbutus, and the holly; they looked 
wintery, certainly, but then they were Iresh and healthy, and for 
Mr. Barker they produced the very desirable effect ot interposing 
between him and the polar Mrs. Narrowsmiih’s hideous head gear. 
Barker was very cold, and as he sat with his back to the fire-place,, 
he turned round to see how it was that no heat reached him. There 
was a fire in the grate, but it had evidently been lighted not an 
hour before. It yielded a great deal of smoke, but no warmth what- 
ever. While he was directing Mrs. Spread’s attention to these 
agreeable incidents of a house-warming, the page put a finishing 
touch to the piece, by running up and asking the bachelor, “ Would 
he like to have a fire-screen?” 

While they were enjoying this serious jest, up jumped Mrs. 
Marable, in considerable excitement, and proclaimed tlie astounding 
fact that the party consisted of the ill-omened number ot thirteen.^ 

There was a general movement. The superstition is a prevalent 
one. Of course, neither the Spreads nor Mr. Barker were so weak 
as to feel very uneasy at the circumstance, nor did Major-general 
Guydickens betray any very strong emotion; but the rest of the 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 61 

company were not so philosophical ; and as to the hostess herselt;, 
she wiis made utterly miserable by the discovery. 

“ Shall 1 make Grace come down, mother?” inquired Maria 
Theresa, hittino;,on a mode of meeting the diflScuity. 

Barker growled, and glanced at Mr. Spread. 

” It’s a very good suggestion, my dear,” said Mrs. Narrowsmith, 
quite relieved by her daughier’s felicitous proposal. ” I’ll fetch 
her myself,” she added ; and, rising from the table, she left the room. 
‘‘ Who can Grace be?” said Mrs. Spread to Mr. Barker. 

” One of the daughters of the house — 1 think it’s an ice-house, 
replied Barker, shivering, and glancing again at the cold fire. 

” Cold enough for one,” said Mrs. Spread — ” but Mr. Narrow- 
smith has only one daughter. ’ 

The hostess re entered at the moment, leading by the hand, not a 
handsome, but a singularly interesting and quiet-looking girl, ot 
fifteen or sixteen, whom Barker did not immediately recognize a» 
the young person who had occupied the corner of the carriage on 
his journey from town, and whom he had, with astonishing civility, 
conducted in safety to the place of her destination Mrs. Spread, 
with the quick perception of her sex, discovered, almost at a glance^ 
that the little girl, for whose presence she was indebted to so odd 
an accident, was no second edition of Maria Theresa, or a work of 
the same class at all. Tliough dressed with the utmost simplicitj'-, 
in a frock that would have been a very plain one even in the morn- 
ing, and with no ornament but a mean necklace of blue beads, 
which had obviously been huddled on her neck by w^ay of com- 
pensation for the frugality of the rest of her attire, she was at once 
distinguished and fascinating. It was a puzzle to Mrs. Spread to 
account for so gentle and refined a little girl being related or conected 
with a fam'ily so coarse as the Narrowsraiths. Who could she pos- 
sibly be? What might be her history? How did it happen that she 
had never been seen, her name so much as breathed, or her existence 
even hinted at before? She expressed her surprise at, and admiration 
of, Grace, in smiles and becks at Mr. Spread, who replied, in the 
same language, that he concurred in his wife’s approval and partici- 
pated in her astonishment. 

There is a magnetic power in geuine worth and delicacy which at- 
tracts the notice and sympathy of the same qualities, whenever 
they come wdthiu the range of its influence. Mrs. Spread could 
scarcely keep her eyes for a moment off the new-comer : she waa 
the only thing feminine in the room which it was possible to regard 
with interest — indeed, even with complaisancy. 

1 lie bachelor pleased Mrs. Spread greatly by recalling to her 
memory the exquisite lines of Ben Jonson — 

“ Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a ^ace; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me. 

Than all the adulteries of art; 

They strike my eyes, but not my heart.” 

The miser asKed Barker to take wine— sherry. Mrs. Spread coulcf 
evidently see that Barker w'ould have given the wine another ap- 
pellation. In fact, it was a mixture of the grapes of Cadiz and the 


*62 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

Cape. Mr. Narrowsraith was as roguish about wine, and as prac- 
ticed a gaibler of the grape as the most disingenuous vintner in 
Liverpool. ... 

]Now the hsh came, a magnificent turbot, to do the miser justice, 
but it was a little overdone, and the sauce was execrable. 

Mr. Spread had been separated, by some accident, irom the fair 
East-lndian, and sat between Mrs. Crackenlhorpe and Mrs. Marable. 
The one was a dissyllabic, the other a monosyllabic lady. 

“ You find this frosty weather agreeable, 1 hope,” to Mrs. Mara- 
ble. 

Very.” 

“ 1 should think there must be skating in some places.” 

” Do 5 "ou?” 

1 was fond of skating in my young days.” 

Were you?” 

Then he tried Mrs. Crackenlhorpe. 

” Have you been lately in London?” 

‘‘No.” 

“ Your sister lives in Loudon, if 1 remember right?” 

“Yes.” 

“ You know my friend Upton, 1 think?” 

“No.” 

“ Don’t you think this room a little cool?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You find your new house comfortable, 1 hope, Narrowsmith,” 
said Mr. Spread, giving the ladies up, and making one of those re- 
marks indispensable at house-warmings. 

“ Very.” squealed the host, in his wiry, gibbering voice; “ warm 
and comfortable — very-— don’t you think the atmosphere of this 
room agreeable? Weil, I assure you, it’s the coldest room in the 
house.” 

“ Except the kitchen,” muttered Barker, to his fair neighbor. 

“We found it not easy to warm the house we lived in before,” 
said Mrs. Narrowsmith. 

Did she ever try coals?” growled Barker again. 

But the guest that most annoyed the Narrowsmiths during the re- 
past was Dr. Prout, who. when he was not talking of hydropathy 
(for he was a furious advocate of water externally), was always 
calling for something that was not to be had. After the soup he 
called for cold punch; when he was asked what wMne he would 
take, he replied Burgundy; he asked three times for cucumber; and 
at the dessert, he begged Mr. Spread to help him to a peach, mis- 
taking, or pretending to mistake, a pile ot apples for one of the 
rarer fruit. 

The Fronts would not have been asked at all, but that their 
cpergne was in requisition; a splendid article, which (being very 
obliging people) they were always ready to lend a dinner-giving 
friend, for the reasonable consideration of being invited along with 
it. Theepergne never dined out without the Prouts, and the Prouta 
seldom dined out without the epergne, 

Mrs. Spread was wretched about her husband, and was continu- 
ally saying to Mr. Barker— “L fear be will get his death of cold— 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 


63 


do you think the window behind him can be open? — how happy 1 
am Augusta is not here.” 

Barker made no reply ; he was paying critical attention to some- 
thing on his plate, which Mrs. Narrowsmith had just recommend- 
ed to him as "one of Madame Maintenon's cutlets." Having re- 
moved the envelope with his fork, he turned to Mrs. Spread, and, 
with the oddest conceivable mixture of disgust and enjoyment in 
his countenance, directed her attention to the unfolded paper. 

‘‘ AVhat! 1 [u-otest there is writing on it— in the name of all that 
is comical, try to make out what it is.” 

Thus adjured, Mr, Barker looked narrowly at the scrap of paper 
in which the cutlet had been dressed, and had no great diflBcuIty in 
reading nearly the entire of the Crackenthorpes’ answer to the 
Harrowsmiths’ invitation. Ihe cutlets just at that moment taking 
their round again, Mrs. Spread resolved to have one, to try her 
chance of a literary document where nobody could have dreamed of 
meeting a thing of the kind. It was a very diverting occupation 
this, for a dinner-table. 

‘‘ Well, what have you got? is it mine?" 

” Ours" said Mrs. Spread, recognizing the hand of her daughter 
Elizabeth upon the wrapper of the exquisite morceau before her. 

‘‘Mrs. Spread, will you take a glass of champagne with me?”^ 
squeaked the miser, from the foot of the table. He had deferred 
the production of the champagne until the latest possible moment, 
from which Mr. Spread, who well knew his habits, inferred, and 
correctly, that he had screwed up his courage to give a tolerably 
fair wine. And it was really so; Barker had a glass of it after Mrs. 
Spread had been helped, and he liked it so well that he in.vited 
Spread to join him in another, after which he had some venison, which 
was not bad, considering that it had been roasted in a grotto; and 
then (undeterred by the looks oi his host, who, he made no doubt, 
was scowling malignantly at him) he looked round the table for a 
supporter in a third glass", when. Ids eye resting on the little Grace, 
who sat nearly opposite to him, he began to recall the features of 
his fellow-traveler, and good-naturedly asked her to take wine, at 
the same time ordering the flask to be carried round to her, which 
was done before Mrs. 'Narrowsmith could interfere to prevent it, or 
recommend Cape Madeira to her pi'otegee in place of the cham- 
pagne. Mrs. Spread remarked how the attention of Mr. Barker 
flushed the cheek of the little girl, and with what a singularly sweet 
smile she returned the bachelor’s courtesy. 

General Guydickens, meanwhile, asked Mr. Marable to take wine. 

“Try that "Madeira,” cried the host; ‘‘the Madeira to Major- 
General Guydickens. 

Mr. Marable, however, was a teetotaler, and would drink noth- 
ing more generous than cold water. « 

“ I’m sworn" said Mr. Marable, ” not to touch wine." 

“ There is not a headache in a hogshead of that" said Narrow- 
smith. 

‘‘ Nor a yerjury, either,” said Barker, in Mrs. Spread’s ear. 

The second course was worth}^ of the first, and the dessert of the 
second course. As handsome a dessert might have been provided 
in the wastes of Arabia Petraea. . The mistakes and vulgarities oi 


64 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

the day. amusing at first, became at length intolerably fatiguing. 
Who can endure a five-act farce? Poor Mrs. Spread, suffering very 
much from cold, and thinking of her fireside and her happy chil- 
dren at home, stole little agonizing looks from lime to time at her 
liiisband. Barker was tired of grumbling, and became moody and 
silent. There was some stable-talk between the major-general and 
Mr. Crackenthorpe; Miss Gnydickens told her tale of the tiger and 
Lieutenant Curry; and as to Mr. Voluble, he continued to chatter 
like a flock of sparrow's under the eaves of a baru. 

But it was a tedious, heavy, chilling affair altogether, and Mrs, 
tSpread thought that Mrs. Narrowsmith would never give the signal 
for the rising of the ladies. The truth was, that Mrs. Narrowsmith 
was uncertain whether she ouglit to look at Mrs. Marable, or Mrs. 
Spread, or even at Miss Gnydickens. At length, it was over; the 
ladies went, the gentlemen remained; a bottle of claret was pro- 
duced; Ml. Spread said it was corked — another— Mr. Spread made 
the same remark— a third— it was a wonder it had escaped the same 
criticism, for there was very little wine uncorked, in any sense of 
the word, in Mi. Narrowsmith’s establishment. The third, how- 
ever, was not a very bad bottle, and it promoted a little conversa- 
tion. 

Mr. Barker had what Spread called an Irish “ row ” with the 
doctor, who was a quack out of his calling as well as in it. Eventu- 
ally, more of the party became involved in it, as often happens in 
rows of another kind. 

The conversation commenced good-humoredly enough. Somebody 
observed, that what the Irish were luost deficient in were habits of 
prudence and foresight. 

“ Bad calculators,” said Mr. iNarrowsmith. 

” 1 don’t think we can say that of them,” said Mr. Marable; ” at 
least, I’m sure they multiply fast enough.” 

“And the tithe system,” said Barker, ‘‘must have made them 
tolerably quick at decimals.” 

” Their divisions, too,” added Spread, ” are quite as remarkable 
as their multiplications.” 

” A complete system of political arithmetic,” said the bachelor. 
■” 1 wish they were equally celebrated for their political economy.” 

‘‘ The less of that they have the better,” said Mr. Marable, who 
plumed himself on being a practical man; ” at all events, 1 trust 
the principles of political economy will not be regarded now, when 
there is every prospect of the country being visited with famine.” 

” Very like saying that the principles of naviaatiou ought to be 
disregarded by the mariner in a storm,” said Mrs. Spread. 

‘‘What Ireland wants, sir, is a vigorous government, a good 
sound despotism,” said the, doctor; ‘‘put down assassins, that’s 
what Isay.” • 

‘‘ Put down exterminators first,” said Barker. 

‘‘ What you call extermination, 1 call improvement,’^ said the 
doctor. 

‘‘ Then, 1 say, put down improvement,” said Barker. 

‘‘ Doctor, you are for bleeding— it is quite natural,” said Spread, 
good-humoredly. 

*‘A little of the doclor’s immersion, too,” said Mr. Orackcn- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 65 

(horpe, “would, 1 think, do Ireland no harm: 1 am quite of the 
late Sir Joseph Yorke’s opinion, that an hour’s ducking in the At- 
lantic would do her a great deni ot good.” 

“1 don’t know,’’ said Barker, “ what the effect of cold water 
would be, but 1 must say the country has been kept in hot water 
long enough.’’ 

“ By the priests and the agitators, sir,’’ said the doctor. 

“ By the absentees,’’ said Crackentborpe. 

“ By the clergy,” said Marable. 

“ By the Whigs,” said Narrowsmith. 

“ By quacks,” said Barker. 

The word quack is a most unmusical one to the ear of a doctor, 
particularly when he is a professor of hydropathy, and therefore Mr. 
Spread, who always exerted himself to keep the peace attlie ainner- 
tabl.e, as well as in other places, diverted the ph 5 "sician’s attention 
by asking him whether he did not agree with Mr. Crackentborpe, 
that absenteeism was in a great measure what kept up the supply of 
“ hot water ” in Ireland. 

The doctor entirely concurred with Mr. Spread, who then added: 

“ My friend Barker is, I know, of the same opinion.” 

Here the spirit of contradiction manifested itself in the bachelor 
of Albany in a manner that was truly scandalous. A thousand times 
had lie agreed with Spread in inveighingagainst the Irish absentees; 
yet now, to his friend’s infinite astonishment, he wheeled right 
about, and took up the opposite position fiercely. 

“Quite the contrary,” he said; “absenteeism is one of the few 
•blessings that Ireland enjoys. The more absentees the better. 'Fhe 
question lies in a nutshell. An absentee is either rich or he is poor, 
if he is rich, he must be a rascal to desert his native country; and 
there is sufficient resident rascaiity, I think, at present, without tak- 
ing measures to increase it; if he is poor, on the other hand, ot what 
use can he be at home — what can a pauper landlord do lor a pauper 
tenantry? The question lies in a nutshell.” 

Spread stared, and blushed for the bachelor, but said nothing. 

The doctor observed, with great justice, that all Barker had said 
was arrant sophistr}''; that there was no more deceptive form of 
argument than that which The bachelor had' employed, and that he 
would come down upon the absentees with a thundering tax. 

“ Every owner of a landed estate,” said the doctor, “ought to 
reside upon it.” 

“ And by parity of reasoning,” eaidBarkef, “ every man who has 
property in the funds ought to live in Threadneedle Street.” 

So saying, he rose from the table, and followed the ladies. The 
general feeling was strongly against him; but Marable and Cracken- 
thorpe, being crotchety men themselves, were quite charmed with 
the bachelor, and Crackenthoipe said he was just the man for 
Boroughcross, a town in Yorkshire, which was just then in want of 
a representative. 

“ Eh, Marable, what do you think?” 

“ I agree with you,” said Marable, 

“ We’ll both talk aoout it to-morrow,” said Crackentborpe; “ no 
time ought to be lost.” 

3 


66 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAI^Y. 


CHAPTER XU. 

A violet, by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye; 

Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

Wordsworth. 

The Miser’s Salons— Mrs. Narrowsmith’s Taste in Colors — Fascina- 
tions ot Maria Theresa— Historiette ot a Shipwrecked Girl — 
Laura and Petrarch have a T6te-n-i6te— A Monster-Meeting — 
Mrs. Xarrowsmith is caught doing Something very shabby— 
Mr. Barker retreats— His Retreat is intercepted — He refuses to 
sing, but is forced to dance — He is confounded b}’^ a Name in a 
Stranger’s Hat, and wishes himself back in the Albany. 

The drawing-room!— a withdrawing-room would have been a 
better name — for there was nothing to draw anybody to it, and every- 
thing to induce people to withdraw from it. To Mrs. Spread it was 
bleaker than the dining-room many times. A few pompous pieces 
of furniture only drew attention to the shabbiness of their associates. 
There was not a picture, or even a print, upon the walls, or any- 
thing to cover their nakedness, save a single very large looking-glass 
in an ostentatious frame, a looking-glass quite out of keeping with 
the other details of the apartment, and which only served, in fact, 
to double the dreary effect ot the surrounding objects. The space 
between the windows was occupied by tables of a whitish -gray 
marble. On one of these cold slabs lay one or two annuals of years 
gone by, probably bought at a stall for a shillinir apiece. A tawdry 
prayer-book and an allTum in half-binding, gaudily lettered with the 
name ot Miss Maria Theresa, glittered and shivered upon the other. 
The room was newdy and (if you will take Mrs, Marable’s word for 
it) “tastily’' furnished. The governing tint was drab— all drab, 
drab walls, drab carpets, drab everything It made one think of the 
men of Pennsylvania, or the Society of Friends. Drab was Mrs. 
Narrowsmith’s color; her very soul must have been a drab, it was 
a cheap color, and what she called a fast color; a color, too, that 
bore dyeing and turning, and all the metamorphoses to which fancy, 
inspired b}' meanness, could subject stuffs. Pendent from the ceil 
ing by a green cord, was a system, or constellation, of glass prisms 
and sockets, capable of holding some eight or ten candles. It was 
dignified with the name of a chandelier, and held in such veneration 
by the Narrowsmiths, that it w^as only illuminated upon gala occa-, 
sions like the present, at all other times kept as religiously veiled 
as the relics of Aixda-Chapelle, or the Holy Coat ot Treves. When 
Mrs. Spread entered the drawing-room, this superb affair had only 
two candles lighted, Mrs. Narrowsmith, how^ever, ordered the page 
to illumine the rest fortiiwith, explaining to the matrons round her 
that the cadies were “ patent amandines,’’ the advantages of which 
over wax were incredible; and looking, when the operation ot 
lighting was complete, as vain as the wile ot a Mandarin presiding 
at a feast of lanterns. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


67 

This splendid room communicated by a folding-door with an- 
other still more spacious, embellished with ihe same severe taste, 
and in an alarming state of preparation tor music and dancing. 
Here stood Miss Maria Theresa’s second-hand Broadwood (a very 
grand piano, indeed), bought at an auction tor twenty guineas, 
with a pile of music-books near it, containing all the odious over- 
tures, rascally rondos, and snobbish sonatas, composed tor coarse 
ears and red fingers, to enchant the low-countries ot the musical 
world. These horrors ot harmony were all in readiness, upon this 
occasion, to tickle the ear and melt the heart ot Mr. Philip Spread, 
into whose breast it was only natural to think a passion tor the fair 
daughter of the house would creep all the easier tor having the vari- 
ous entrances previously unlocked by that accomplished young lady 
herself with, her own ivory keys. However, she did not rely, or her 
mother for her, solely upon her melodious powers, for a table, in a 
corner of the same ro(»m, was covered with unequivocal proofs 
that she could astonish the eye with colors, as well as the ear 
with sounds. In fact. Miss Narrowsmith was decidedly a mag- 
net with two poles, the only misfortune being that they were 
both repelling ones. At least they had no other effect that evening 
upon the young man of whom she had laid so extensive a scheme 
of conquest. The conduct ot Philip annoyed all tlie Narrowsmilhs 
extremely. He never vouchsafed a glance at Maria’s paintings; 
never once peeped into her album; and while she was performing 
the overture ot “ Der Freischuiz,” his back was turned upon the 
executioner, and he was engaged in conversation with his mother, 
and at one time (of all people in the world) with little Grace Medli- 
cott. So piqued was the miser’s daughter at this negligent behavior, 
that she positively refused to sing, although, in the opinion of her 
own circle, she was little short of a Priraa Donna. 

Grace Medlicott was the name ot the girl whom nobody cared for 
in the coach, and for whom nobody seemed to care in the house to 
which Mr. Barker had been so strangely instrumental in conducting 
her. Directly Mrs. Spread entered the drawing-room, and could 
disengage herself from the vulgar attentions ot her hostess, she ap- 
proached Grace, and got into conversation with her; having previ- 
ously ascertained her name from Maria Theresa, who spoke ot her. 
not with any positive slight, but as it she was a person who was not 
in a position to excite any feeling at all, not so much as scorn. Mrs. 
Spread, it may well be supposed, asked no probing or even leading 
questions; and the reserve with which the young girl confined her 
explanations respecting herself to such points only as it would have 
been rudeness not to have elucidated, gave Mrs. Sprend a very favor- 
able opinion of her taste and judgment. The particulars of her story 
which Mrs. Spread was enabled to collect that night amounted 
merely to this; that she was an orphan, nearly related to Mr. Nar- 
rowsmith and under his protection, if not legally his ward. She 
had lately returned from one of the colonies, in the care ot a person 
who had been a steward or domestic of her father. The ship had 
been wrecked upon the Cornish coast (it had been a remarkable 
shipwreck, and Mrs. Spread was familiar with its details tiom the 
newspapers); the loss of lives had been very great, and among those 
wmo perished was the person who had charge of Grace. Her own 


68 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

personal share in the dangers and horrors of the wreck had heen 
considerable. How she had escape<l she scarcely knew; and, after 
her life had been preserved, she found lieiself, a young and timid 
girl, cast upon the shores of a country where she was not acquainted 
with the face of a human being; the tempest that destroyed the 
vessel still howling, and. not so much as the body of lier unfortunate 
attendant rescued from the waves. In this stale of destitution she 
had not been without several offers of assistance; but with instinct- 
ive prudence she had selected, as the most eligible, that of the 
clergyman of the parish in which the calamity had occurred, fie 
was a young, but a married man, almost as poor as his Divine 
Master, whose doctrines he preached, not ineloquently, in the pulpit, 
but with ten times more power in the silent rhetoric of his life. To 
the charity of this gentleman she was indebted, not merely for a tem- 
porary asylum, but for the recovery of some few articles of property, 
including a box containing several papers, of more consequence than 
Grace, at the Lime, was aware of. Among the rest was a letter 
directed to Isaac Narrowsmith, esq., of the firm of Spread and 
Narrowsmith, Liverpool. She understood it to contain her recom- 
mendation to the care of her father’s only, or nearest relative in 
England, and to avail herself of that gentleman’s friendship became, 
of course, her primary concern. The good Mr. Earnsay (that was 
the clergyman’s name) would gladly have acted still as her protector, 
but Grace could not consent to burden, for more than a few da.ys, 
the benevolence of a person upon whom she had no claims, and 
who could but very ill afford to indulge in the romance of hospital- 
ity; she therefore deteimincd to repair at once to Liverpool, wdiere 
there could be no doubt that her relation, from his eminent mer- 
cantile position, would be discovered with ease. She had barely 
money enough remaining to defray the expense of the journey; and 
she was so deficient in clothes (having none but those which she 
happened to wear upon the fatal night of the shipwieck), that she 
was constrained to accept a few indispensable additions to her stock 
from the scanty wardrobe of the vicar’s wife. 

While Mrs. Spread was gleaning these few particulars, which in- 
terested her extremely, Mr, Barker was ranging the rooms in a 
savage humor, which was, however, somewhat mollified upon his 
descrying the agreeable Laura Smyly, who had estaOlished herself 
in a corner, where she was at once aloof from the vulgar and enabled 
to observe all that went on. The bachelor observed that “ she did 
not dance.” 

“ Dance!" exclaimed Laura, “ !iere!" 

These two monosyllables, with the emphasis upon them, explained 
Laura’s reason for not dancing, in the most satisfactory^ manner. 
Perhaps it was the allusion to dancing; but certainly Mr. Barker-at 
this precise moment (unused as be was to trouble himself about the 
feet of ladies) did cast a glance at the foot of the sprightly girl, as. 
refulgent in a satin shoe, it same peeping, like a plump white mouse, 
from under her satin petticoat. Another thing is equally incontest- 
able; the thought passed througli his mind that the foot which thus 
peeped out was too pretty to trip on Mrs. Narrowsmith’s drab 
carpets, although it was not so fairy a foot as to dance on the sands 
without leaving a print behind it. *]No! it was the pretty foot of a 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


69 


pretty woman, a much better thing than lhat of a nymph, a tay, or 
a goddess, whatever Air. Barker may have thought upon the sub- 
ject. But perhaps he thought so, too. 

“ Are you well acquainted with Liverpool, Aliss Smyly?” 

“ Pretty well; we are a good deal with the Spreads.’' 

“ Do you know many of these strange people?” 

“ A few only; you may suppose Airs. Spiead keeps such monsters 
at a respectful distance. She is well abused for it; they call her 
proud and upsetting because 'she refuses to know such enormities as 
those women you see sitting on that sofa opposite.” 

‘‘She is perfectly right,” said the bachelor. ‘‘Those Narrow- 
smiths and Marables are very good company — for one another.” 

‘‘1 think thus might be called a monster meeting,” said Laura. 
*‘ Look at that trio on the sola, a sphynx, an ogress, and — 1 don’t 
know what to call the third — can you help me?” 

“ She reminds one of the fabulous account of Scylla, her face is so 
fishy; and those frightful curls, of which she is so prodigal, are the 
liell-dogs balking about her.” 

” That will do admirably,” said Laura, smiling most graciously, 
as she commended the classical similitude. 

Air, St. Leger now came, and prayed Laura to dance with him; 
but his suit was rejected. 

“ Who is that giantess who dined here — tliere, bobbing her head 
up and down?” 

‘‘ Oh, Alias Guydickens, the giraffe; is she not the image of a 
giraffe? Slie is going to be married to the priggish pigm}-^ she is 
dancing with. Lord John Yore ought to have secured her, he is so 
mad for maypoles.” 

• ‘‘Ha! haf Who is the priggish pigmy? 1 hear him talking of 
Palmerston and John Russell as if he was in the cabinet himself.” 

‘‘ Hf is some small olficial; he has some: little mission, or pretends 
to have one, from the Home Office, relating to the scarcity, they 
say.” 

*” He has come to a very good place for collecting details upon 
that subject,” said Barker. 

” Aly sister knows him,” continued Laura; ” he came once on a 
visit to a house where she happened to be, in Suffolk, and he had 
immense packets, in official envelopes, coming down to him con- 
tinually, marked, ‘ private, immediate, and confidential,’ with some- 
times a ministerial frank in the corner. Adelaide suspected that he 
was not the very great man he set up to be; and one morning, with 
some other girls to support her, she insisted on seeing the contents 
of a packet— 1 believe it was a box— more than usually conse- 
quential; and what do you suppose the box contained? Some 
gloves, a parcel of cigars, and a white waistcoat!” 

‘‘ T have known a treasury messenger dismissed for not forward- 
ing a red box containine a bouquet. Fans and bracelets are fre- 
quently expressed from the Home Office, and a clerk of the Ordnance 
will sometimes put on all the steam of the department to transmit an 
aunt in the country a case of gunpowder-tea.” 

Laura laughed heartily. 

” Who is the lady in black, yonder, talking so fluently — handsome 
— ■wffiat a brilliant complexion!” 


70 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

“ A Mrs. Miller— one ot our rich widows— do vou think her 
pretty? She is clever— very accomplished: she plays — sings — 
paints. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Yoluble seems to be paying her attention?” 

“ He is engaged to her; they will talk each other to death before 
the honeymoon’s over — it’s like a match between a macaw and a 
parrot; but do, Mr. Barker, do look at Mr. Narrowsmith putting 
out the candles.” 

The miser had just extinguished the two lights of the constellation 
called a luster, believing that nobody was observing his proceed- 
ings. 

Barker was extremely amused by his fair companion; and, in- 
deed, Laura Smyly was uncommonly lively and entertaining, with 
as good a knack at a nickname as any lady in England. It was no 
wonder she had not been married, for she was too poor for some 
men and too clever for others; besides, she was not the sort ot girl 
to fancy a briefless barrister, or elope with an aide-de-camp. Mrs. 
Spread used to say she had a great deal of the character of Beatrice 
— a shrewd tongue, with a good understanding and a warm heart. 

Though St. Leger had tailed with Laura, Mr. Philip Spread 
thought he might succeed in winning the other sister for a set, so 
he advanced to Laura, and respectfully inquired, ” Would Miss 
Adelaide Smyly dance a quadrille with him?” 

” 1 can’t answer for my sister,” said Laura, as demurely as she 
could: ” but 1 see her yonder talking to youi mother, and she looks 
disengaged.” 

Philip retired, discomfited and piqued; and, accusing Lauia of 
preferring her conversation with Mr. Barker to a dance wdth him, 
he revenged himselt, on joining his mother, by throwing out a hint 
that the clever young lady in question was ‘‘ throwing her cap at 
the Diogenes of the Albany,” as if Laura Smyly was the girl to 
throw her cap at any one, and as if Barker w^aa a man to have caps 
thrown at him. 

The preliminaries of a concert of vocal and instrumental music 
were now painfully audible; this was, ot course, a signal to Barker 
to make his retreat; which, on every account (except, perhaps, that 
it terminated his agreeable tete-d-teie), he was happy to do. 

The Spreads w^ere people who, when they did a civil thing, did it 
as handsomely as they could, and therefore w'ben they decided on 
dining with the Narrowsmiths they made up their minds also to 
remain the due length of time— under their roof — a term of punish- 
ment which was extended on the present occasion, on account of the 
evening party which followed the dinner. Barker, however, was 
under no recognizances to submit to the same amount ot personal 
sufl:ering; so the first notes of the approaching squall no sooner 
reached his ears than he towed ceremoniously to the young lady 
with whom he had been conversing, and made his way out of the 
room, with a nod and a bitter smile at Mrs. Spread as he passed 
near her chair. As he went down-stairs, he encountered a group 
of noisy young men, who had just arrived to grace Mrs. Narrow- 
smith’s festive circle. These were Tom Trombone and Dicky 
Horne, who were in requisition tor the concert, besides several 
other exquisities ot Liverpool (many ot them suitors to Maria 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. . 71 

Theresa), in all the flagancy of provincial dandyism. Trombone’s 
shirt-studs were actual rocks of Irish diamond, and the hair ot the 
whole phalanx had evidently been diligently dressed for the occa- 
sion by some elaborate coifleur of Dean Street, publicly pledged to 
cut gentlemen's hair after the newest Parisian fashion, for the 
moderate charge of sixpence. Up they came to Mrs. Narrowsmith’s 
brilliant salons, boisterousl}’^ gay, laughing, jesting, playing practi- 
cal jokes upon each other, particularly Horne, Trombone, and an- 
other, who kept vociferously singing snatches of the glee of “ Glori- 
ous Apollo,” which was probably in the musical bill of fare for the 
evening. They halted in a body on the first landing-place (which 
was not very wide), as it were to perfect themselves in their horriil 
melody before they proceeded further. First, Trombone would 
come out with his part, in a deep bass voice, as loud as thunder; 
then Horne, who was a tenor, and a terrible one, would strike in; 
and, finally, all three would unite their powers, until this bleak house 
•actually shook and rung with the performance. Poor Mr. Barker, 
having to pass this agreeable knot of revelers, edged close to the 
wall, and moved as rapidly as he could, to get out of their reach and 
hearing as soon as possible. He w'as on the point of succeeding, 
and just turning to descend the second staircase, when the third 
vocalist, a particularly noisy young man, evidently flushed with bad 
wine, or with something still more exciting (as, indeed, were, his 
comrades also), rushed forward, slapped him on the back, grasped 
him by both the hands, and claimed acquaintance with him as his 
friend and fellow-traveler. Imagine the dismay witli which the 
justly incensed bachelor recognized, in the perpetrator ot this auda- 
cious rudeness, tlie owner ot the three-barreled pistol — the nephew in 
search ot an uncle 1 The youth, who w’as as strong as a Hercules, 
held Barker like a vise, laughing and shouting so immoderately, 
that neither the remonstrances nor the struggles of his captive pro- 
duced the least effect. 

“lou mustn’t leave us— stay for supper — you’re a jolly, gay 
fellow.” 

“ Jolly companions every one,” 

burst from the whole orchestra. 

” Does your friend sing?” cried Horne. 

“Ton sing, jolly old fellow, don’t vou? You know you do,” 
cried the chief ijersecutor, unhanding Barker, but planting himself 
so as to cut off his escape down-stairs. 

“ We’ll not go home till morning,” 

Chanted Trombone, the leader of the band, 

“ Till morning— till morning, 

We’ll not go home till morning,” 

was then executed in full chorus. Barker in vain trying to escape 
from the ring. 

” Well, you can dance, old fellow, if you can’t sing,” and no 
sooner said than done: the bachelor’s railway acquaintance seized 
him by both hands again, and compelled him by main force to 
dance a hornpipe, or something ot the kind, upon the lobby. Bark- 


72 , THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAIfY. 

er’s tormenta were only terminated by the interposition of Mias 
Maria Theresa Narrowsmith, who, being anxious that the music 
should commence in the drawing-room, appeared at the head of the 
stairs, and called to Signors Trombone and Horne to “ hare done 
with their nonsense,” as “ mamma wanted them instantly.” Trom- 
bone and Horne obeyed the summons with a hop, step, and jump; 
but Mr. Barker’s more particular friend insisted upon embracing 
him affectionately, squeezing his hands, and clapping him on the 
back a dozen times before he ga\e him his freedom. 

The state the bachelor was In, after such rude treatment and vio- 
lent exercise, may easily be conceived. He was in a fever, and 
scarcely able to articulate with vexation. There tvas considerable 
difficulty, too, about finding his hat. His name, however, was 
written in it, and he told the servant what it was, A hat was soon 
handed to him — a hat in wiiich he would not have walked a hun- 
dred yards foi a thousand pounds. It was not a sportsman’s hat, 
or a waterman’s hat, or a bishop’s hat, or a coachman’s hat, or a 
prize-fighter’s hat, but one that combined the oddities of those and 
ail other hats that ever were invented. Barker, of course, repudi- 
ated it ferociously, and charged the servant with not being able to 
read. 

” Alexander Barker,” said the servant, to repel the attack upon 
his learning. 

Barker winced. 

“ It is not Barker— it’s Parker,” said Mrs. Narrowsmith’s page, 
peeping into the hat which the other servant held in his hand. 

Barker had the curiosity to examine the inscription himself, and 
found it impossible to decide whether it was Parker or Barker; but 
the Alexander was not to be mistaken, and unfortunately Alexander 
was his brother’s name. Meantime, his own hat was produced, and 
he rushed from the house, heartily wishing that he had never left 
his chambers at the Albany. 


CHAPTER XHl. 

Here let ns sit, and talk away an hour, 

On this and that, of something or of nothing ; 

Be’t sense, or nonsense, anything for talk: 

Miue shall be free, and yours shall be malicious; i. 

I tell you, Blanche, I’m talkative to-day. ' 

The Spinsters. 

Chat about Grace — Mr. Spread and Mr. Barker differ about the 
Amount of Villainy in the World— The Bachelor sets the Break- 
fast-table in a Roar— He is humiliated by Mrs. Martin— Mrs. 
Marlin delivers a Lecture on the Art of Conversation— Theo- 
(lore meditates an Outrage on the Bachelor, and is brought be- 
fore Mrs. Martins Correctional Tribunal — Mrs. Spread visits 
Mrs. Narrowsmith — Mrs. Spread takes a Bold Resolution — 
Grace discovered to be a Heroine. 

Mrs Spread, though the most devoted of mothers, had room 
enough in her affections to interest herself, occasionally, in the chil- 
dren of other people, whenever she found intellectual superiority 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 73 

combined with simplicity and truth of character; but particularly 
when, either through misfortune or neglect, innocence was left with^ 
out protection, or merit without a friend. Her heart was so free 
from everything selfish, and her mind from everything narrow and 
vulgar, that there was ample space in both for every kindly feeling 
to expand itself; throwing out attachments and sympathies in all 
directions, as some fair plant in a roomy conservatory, where all is 
warm and lightsome round about, branches freely in every direction, 
with infinite tendrils, to seize and fasten upon whatever is sweet and 
beautiful within its reach. Of all the young persons she had ever 
met, she had been most struck with Grace Medlicott, and the feel- 
ing was shared by her husband and her daughters, Mr. Spread 
suspected that Grace was niece to Mr. INarrowsmith: he had some 
recollection of having heard, many years before, that his partner 
had a brother, with whom he had quarreled, and who. after some 
years of struggle at home, as a literary man, under a feigned name, 
had ultiniately obfained a colonial appointment, and disappeared 
from England. The recollection was a very faint one. Narrow- 
smith had never alluded even to the existence of a brother, and Mr. 
Spread had totally forgotten the assumed name, if, indeed, he had 
ever heard it. All agreed that Grace was a remarkble girl, intelli- 
gent beyond her age, which it was not very easy to determine. One 
said sixteen, another thought she was not so much; Mr. Spread was 
of opinion she might be “in about her eighteenth winter." 

“ Winter, indeed — you may well say winter, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Spread; “if the poor thing continues wdth her friends in Rodney 
Street, she is not likely to know much of any other season.” 

“ 1 certainly think,” said Mr. Spread, “ that to be under the pro- 
tection of the Narrowsmiths, is as like being unprotected as it well 
can be; at least, against cold,” he added. “1 hope, in other re- 
spects, the poor girl will not be so badly ofl.” 

“Imagine Mr. Narrowsmith being guardian to any one!” ex- 
claimed Augusta. 

“ Imagine Mrs. Narrowsmith supplying the place of a mother!” 
said Elizabeth, 

“ Come, girls,” said their father, who never encouraged gloomy 
or uncharitable views in his children, either of persons or things, 
“ come, we perhaps do the Nafrowsmiths injustice; after all, there 
is not so much villainy in the world as we are too apt to think.” 

“ Ten times more,” said Barker, who had hitherto been break- 
fasting in moody silence—” ten times more villainy than you, or I, 
or anybody, has any notion of. The secret history of the world re- 
mains to be written.” 

“ 1 admit he’s a miser—Narrowsmith u a miser,” said Spread, 
not much disposed to be disputatious, and not very clear but that 
the bachelor was in the right. 

“ A miser!” repeated Barker. “ He is miserrimus." 

And then he drew a picture of (he previous day’s entertainment— 
so true, so vivid, so piquant, so full of minute detail, so highly, 
though unintentionally, comic, that, while full of gall and bittern^s 
himself, he set the \®hole breakfast-table in a roar. It was like an 
actual rec1iau:^e of “ Madame Maintenon’s cutlets,” and Mr. Spread 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


74 

declared it made him feel over again as if he 'was seated on an ice- 
berg, eating his soup with a hatchet. 

“ 1 trust that poor girl,” said Mrs. Spread, returning to the sub- 
ject of Grace, ‘‘ whoever she may be, is not entirely dependent upon 
the bonnt}’^ of her relations; she looks like a person who would soon 
sink under hard or unkind usage.” 

“ Then she will sink soon enough,” said Barker. “ What other 
treatment will she meet from that she-driver?” 

‘‘ We must only hope the best,” said Mr. Spread. And now, 
Miss Jijrura, w’hat have you to say for yourself? Why, you are as 
silent as my Bessie there, this morning. How did you like Mrs. 
Narrow-smith’s ball? Whom did you dance with?” 

Laura laughed, and said she had not danced at all. 

“ She was more agreeably ercployed,” said Philip, maliciously. 

Barker had no notion that he had been alluded to as having con- 
tributed to Miss Smyly’s entertainment; it would have made him 
extremely angry, which Mrs. Spread knew so well, that she intimat- 
ed to Philip, by a look, that he w-as not to venture upon such tender 
giound again. But Laura thought a maternal rebuke was too slight 
a correction for Philip’s impertinence; she was not a young lady to 
be assailed with impunity, so she begged to have a list of young Mr. 
Spread’s partners on the previous evening, first desiring to know 
who was the beauty in pink with whom he had danced — twice. 

‘‘ And the beauty in blue, whom you waltzed with?” inquired 
Adelaide, 

‘‘ L can tell you, Philip, you ought to have danced with Miss 
Narrowsmith; it would have been only polite,” said Mrs. Spread. 

‘‘ But only think, mamma, of his having never once danced either 
with Miss Marable or Bessie Bomford, the whole night,” said Au- 
gusta. 

‘‘ Phil, my boy,” said his father, rising, ‘‘ 1 fear you are a Sir 
Proteus. Aou remind me of a humorous rhyme in one of Sheri- 
dan’s letters to Swift: 

“ ‘You are as faithless as a Carthaginian, 

• To love at once Kate, Nell, Doll, Slartha, Jenny, Anne.’ ” 

‘‘ That’s in a letter of Swift to Sheridan,” snarled Mr. Barker. 

Mrs. Martin now rose, with her usual dignity, and, in rising, sig- 
nified, sotto wee, to Elizabeth Spread, that she wished to have a little 
pi ivate conversation with her, upon a subject which she said had been 
suggested by the remarks that had just been made upon the incon- 
stancy of men. Elizabeth, being satisfied of Mr. Owlet’s constancy, 
did not exactly see the appropriateness of the theme selected for the 
private lecture, but was too respectful to decline attending it. As 
ISIrs. Martin was leaving the room, she missed her black silk reti- 
cule; it happened to be hanging on the back of Mr. Barker’s chair, 
and, in rather a lofty way (forgetting, perhaps, that it was not a gen- 
tleman in petticoats she had to deal with), she motioned to the bach- 
elor to hand it to her. There is no avoiding sometimes obeying lit- 
tle orders of this nature; but w-hile Barker was making the circuit of 
the table to do what civility required, Mrs. Martin, instead of w^ait- 
ing, kept moving briskly forward, talking to li^izabeth, so that be 
had to submit to the indignity of following with the reticule, and 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


75 


still following, until the commanding governess reached the top of 
the first flight of stairs, when, at length, remembering the reticule, 
she turned round, and extended her hand to receive it, acknowledg- 
ing Mr, Barker’s courtesy only with a dignified inclination of her 
head. It made the proud bachelor very sore, and the Smyly girls 
were in ecstasies. 

Mrs. Martin, having made Elizabeth sit down beside her, on the 
causeuse in her dressing-room, proceeded, with great solemnity, to in- 
troduce the topic of the approaching nuptials with the Canon of 
Salisbury, and to impart her own profound views of the line of con- 
duct to be pursued by a married woman desirous of maintaining the 
influence and dignity of her sex. 

“ Depend upon it, Elizabeh dear,” she said, “ dt'meslic govern- 
ment is a science; when 1 say goveruncent, you must not suppose me 
to mean that a woiruin ought to seek to rule her husband; in fact, 
my dear, when 1 use the word government, 1 mean (system: it is not 
too much to say, that the happiness of the married state depends 
entirely upon the system pursued by the lady, and what that system 
should be it has been the great object of my life and writings to es- 
tablish. You have read my work on the ‘ Matrons ot England ’?” 

“ Yes, madam, with great interest.” 

‘‘ And my work on the ‘ State and Dignity of the British Wife ’? 
Y'es, 1 know you have read both; now, my dear, if those works 
have any value, it is that in them I have unfolded the principles of 
what 1 call my system with husbands; aud 1 firmly believe that its 
general adoption by our sex would do more than anything else (un- 
less any measure could be introduced in parliament — 5 ’^our lather 
doubts it) to cure married men ot that indifference and proverbial 
inconstancy which we aie all so ready to complain of, without tak- 
ine the pains we ought to correct and remedy. Now, attend, my 
dear — my first principle is design; let there be a design in everything 
you say and do.” 

Perhaps Elizabeth looked as if she thought this rather a singular 
precept, for so great a moralist as Mrs. Martin, for that lady paused 
a moment, and added, parenthetically, ‘‘ Of course, 1 distinguish 
between having a design and being designing; the design 1 speak ot 
is merely the improvement and moral elevation of your husband, 
which you must always, my dear Elizabeth, keep steadily before 
your eyes.” 

Elizabeth had always been of opinion that she was rather to look 
for improvement and elevation to her husband; so this part of the 
system not a little surprised her. However, she did not interrupt 
Mis. Martin, who thus proceeded: 

” Conversation is as much a science as mathematics or geology. 
It is upon your conversation (you are deficient, Elizabeth, in this— 
you are too reserved — too silent) that you must rely tor carrying out 
the design 1 have explained. Now listen, my dear; mark what 1 
say upon this vital subject: I have reduced the art of conversation 
to three simple rules, nothing can be simpler: the first is adaptation; 
study your husband’s tastes and character, and ndapt your conver- 
sation lothem; the second is, to be alwaj^s lively ami animated— 
here, my dear girl, you are not all that 1 could wish you— and the 
third is this, in all that a woman addresses to her husband she should 


76 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

aim at either the esiaUishment of a fact or the deduction of a moral. 
Now, SCO, my love, and reflect upon what I have said; wTite down 
as much ot it as you can, 1 shall apply the rule of adaptation to 
your particular case in my next lecture.” 

Elizabeth went her way, very much entertained, if nut equally 
edified, by Mrs. Martin’s discourse, and just at the same time Mrs. 
Briscoe’s lazy maid carre to lodge a very serious complaint against 
Mr. Theodore Spread, whom she had caught in the act of putting a 
mouse into one of Mr, Barker’s boots. Letty was grateful to the 
bachelor tor his services on the night ot her arrival, and took this 
opportunity of showing it. Only fancy Mr. Barker finding a 
mouse in his bool — and in the model house of Mrs. Spread. To be 
sure, such things will happen in the best regulated families, and 
would lake place much ottener were it not for the ]Mrs Martins. 
Theodore was on the point of undergoing the extreme penalties of 
the law, when Laura Smyly opportunely interposed, and at her sug- 
gestion a whipping was commuted into ten lines of Montgomery’s 
“Satan,” the rigid infliction of which had the excellent effect of 
making the offender abominate both Montgomery and Satan all the 
days ot his life. 

Mrs. Spread knew too well what a dinner is to a family like the 
Narrowsmiths, to think of visiting there tlie day after tlie banquet. 
The next morning, however, she lesolved to perforin that duty, with 
an interest she had never before felt in going to the house in Rod- 
ney Street. Mrs. Narrowsmith w'as “ not at home,” such was the 
allegation ot the page; the fact being, that IVlrs. Narrowsmith loas 
at home, but “ not fit to be seen” (so she elegantly phrased Tt her- 
self), as if she had ever been in that lady- like state since the day of 
her nativity. A day or tvyo after, Mrs. Spread called a second time, 
and was admitted, but she failed in her principal object, whicli was 
to see Miss Medlicolt. Grace, of course, was talked of, and all that 
fell from Mrs. Narrowsraith’s pinched lips respecting her, not mere- 
ly corroborated what Mrs. Spread had already learned, but alarm- 
ingly confirmed hei apprehensions that the fascinating little girl had 
found relatives, not friends, and a house, not a home, in England. 

A poor relation of Mr. Narrowsmilh’s — not a sixpence in the 
world. How people could die and throw their children upon other 
people she could not imagine. Yes. the shipwreck was a very 
dreadful thing indeed; a visitation of Providence, she had no doubt; 
ever 3 ’body that goes to sea is liable to be shipwrecked; for her part, 
she could not tell why Grace Medlicott was sent to England at all: 
they had orphans enough at home to provide tor, “ Heaven knew.” 

“Heaven knew ” much more about orphans than Mrs. Narrow- 
smith, who was a very, very religious woman in her own way, and 
went twice to divine service every Sunday, with the tawdry page 
carrying the tawdry prayer-book behind her; but Mrs. Narrow- 
smith’s religion was limited to church going; she was'^not on visit- 
ing terms with the fatherless and the widow. 

An allusion of Miss Spread to Grace’s personal attractions, which 
w^ere just those to strike people of refined taste, and to make no 
impression on Marables and Narrowsmiths, excited Miss Maria 
Theresa’s spleen considerably. 

“ Pretty !— do you think so?” with the genuine boarding-school 


THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. ' 77 

toss of the head, supposed to be the finishing-touch ot a young 
lady’s pliysical education. 

“ 1 (io, indeed,” said the calm Augusta, in her soft, equable voice, 
■without motion encugh of her head to agitate a thread of her hair; 

more than pretty,” she added, ” at least 1 think so.” 

” Only think, mamma, of Miss Spread calling little Grace Medli- 
eott a beauty;” aua the fair Miss ISarrowsmith giggled in a fasci- 
nating way she had, as she made this unfair representation of 
Augusta’s opinion, 

” Your brother seemed to think so, at all events,’' said the mother, 
tartly, addressing Augusta. 

” My poor Philip,” said Mrs, Spread, smiling; ” he changes his 
notions ot beauty so very often, he can’t well be said to have an 
opinion on the subject at all.” 

There was some comfort in this. Since Philip was so changeable, 
the time might come when Maria Theresa might be the ” Cynthia 
of the minute.” 

This thought occurred simultaneously to both mother and 
daughter, and they inwardly resolved that Philip had carefully 
'noted the important facts — that Philip had only spoken to Grace 
while his mother was conversing with her, and that none ot the 
girls he had danced with had fortunes, or, at least, anything to be 
compared with hers. 

The visit was soon over; Mrs. Spread found it too cold and too 
disagreeable to tempt her to renew it speedily; so, being anxious tf) 
know more of her new acquaintance, she resolved on rather a bold 
step, which was to invite the Narrowsmiths to an evening party, 
which, upon other accounts, she wished to give. 

Meanwhile, a little incident occurred at the counting house, which 
tended to increase the inteiest already taken by tiie Spreads in the 
unfortunate protege ot Mr. Narrowsmith. The counting-house of 
a great firm is a place of vast resort, frequented by merchants, 
bankers, brokers, notaries, captains of ships, and hundreds of peo- 
ple connected, in one way or another, with mercantile or monetary 
transactions. Among otliers who called that day on t^arious matters 
of business, was a man who had been one of the few passengers 
saved in the wreck of the “Indestructible.” He was relating to 
Mr, 8t, Leger the appalling scenes he had witnessed, describing, to 
the best of his pow( r, the tremendous force of the gale, the fright- 
ful commotion of the sea, the uproar, the confusion, the terror, the 
agony, the hope, the tear, the awful pauses of the storm, the terrific 
renewals of its violence, the dastardly bearing of some, the cool in- 
trepidity of others, specially mentioning such instances ot steadiness 
and bravery us he himself had the opportunity ot noticing. Among 
other cases, he spoke with enthusiastic admiration of a very young 
girl, who had from first to last exhibited a degree of courage and 
self-possession to be admired even in a man, and which had enabka 
her to be of signal service to the other female passengers, the lives 
of one or tw'O ot whom she actually saved, by her presence of mind, 
at a particularly critical moment. It immediately occurred to Mr, 
St. Ijeger that this might have been the girl of whom he had heard 
the Spreads speak with interest; and upon introducing his informant 
to Mr. Spread, the description tallied so perfectly with that ot Miss 


78 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

Medlicott, that no doubt ot their identity remained. Grace, accord- 
ingly, was now invested with a double interest— she was not only 
an outcast, but a heroine. 

“ Poor, fragile thing,” said Mrs. Spread, when she heard this 
account ot Grace’s noble behavior; “one would think a breath 
would shatter her to pieces; she looks so meek, too, and so timid.” 

” The timidity ot modesty,” said Mr. Spread, “ not that of fear. 
1 hooe we shall soon see l)er again.” 

The delicate spirits ot the world are the gallant likewise; the gen 
tie, the modest, the unselfish, compose its chivalr3\ Let the coarse 
do its coarse othces: a Caliban will serve to ” letch in our w’ood: ’ 
but give us an Ariel tor the higher ministries. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Lysimachus. Oh, here is 
The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one ! 

Is’t not a goodly presence? 

Hel. A gallant lady. 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 

Omens of a happy Summer— Mr. Spread’s Attentions to Mrs. Mar- 
tin — A Laugliing Eiuner-table — Spread on Epergnes — Definition 
of good Table-talk — What spoiled the House- warming in the 
Opinion of the Bachelor and Laura — Laura’s superiority to 
Elizabeth Spread in the Art of Adaptation — Mr. Barker plays 
the Critic again— Grace Medlicott’s cold Boudoir— Laura s 
Sobriquet tor Mrs. Xairowsmilh— Observations on the Ther- 
mometer — Music. 

The day fixed for Mrs. Spread’s ” at home ” was to be the last 
of Mr. Barker’s sojourn in Liverpool. There was a great deal ot 
conversation about the Rosary; and whether it was the genial 
climate, both moral and physical, ot Mr. Spread’s house, the agree- 
able vivacity of Laura Smyjj", or that Ihe wind was in the north-east, 
the bachelor was wonderfully placid and propitious. Ten days had 
elapsed since the fatal house-warming, and he had once more thrown 
off his mind the incubus ot an imaginary nephew. The Smyly 
girls, who knew everything and everybody, were not only intimate 
with the family of Dean Bedford, the late tenant of the Rosary, but 
relations of Mrs. Bedford, with whom they were going to pass part 
ot the summer, so that there was every chance of tlie Spreads com- 
mencing their rural lives under the auspices ot Euphrosjme. The 
dean, who had removed to a neighboring villa, called Far Xiente, 
was, b}' all accounts, the heartiest and goodliest of churchmen. 
Spread foresaw that Barker would derive immense satisfaction from 
having always at hand, in a flourishing and luxurious ecclesiastic, 
food tor his caustic humor and exercise for his satirical talents. 

When dinner was announced, Mr. Spread presented his arm to 
Mrs. Martin, with as much respect as it stie had been the Duchess 
of Sutherland. Mr. Barker conducted Mrs. Spread, who had first 
to remind Owlet that it w’as his duty to escort Elizabeth Philip 
had the two Smylys, and the tall Augusta fell to the lot of Mr. St. 
Leger. The dinner was served on a round table, which, with the 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


79 


snowy whiteness of the cloth, the sparkling of (he glass, and the 
brilliancy of the plate, seemed actually to smile, and welcome the 
company as they gathered about it. Owlet said a tractarian grace 
in his deep, sepulchral voice, which nobody but Elizabeth thought 
particularly harmonious. The dinner was plain and elegant, like 
the service You could neither cry “ mifer opes” or '’'pone dapes” 
which has been happily rendered “ more carving and less gilding.” 

Barker was pleased to observe that there was no epergne, now 
that it was not Mis. JSarrowsmith, with her turban, who sat on the 
opposite point of the compass, but one of the Smylys — which of 
them he hardly knew for they had dressed critically alike, to plague 
and perplex Philip. 

Spread disliked epergnes, too. 

” 1 object to them,” he said, ” on free-trade principles; they in- 
terrupt the commerce of the table; 1 can’t allow prohibitions on 
eyes, Mrs. Martin; how are looks and smiles, to be exchanged 
through a forest of camellias and chrysanthemums?” 

“ How few understand the art of conversation, particularly table- 
talk,” said Mr. St. Le’ger. 

This drew forth Mrs. Martin, who treated the company to an 
abstract of the system she had unfolded in her morning lecture. 

” The best description 1 know of good table-talk,” said the mer- 
chant, ‘‘is given by Don Armado, in ‘Love’s Labor Lost;’ ‘a 
sweet touch, a quick venue of wit, snip, snap, quick and home; it 
rejoiceth my intellect, true wit;’ the don, however, talks himself in 
another style.” 

“ A round table has great advantages for conversation,” said Mrs. 
Spread; ‘‘ do you like a round table, Mr. Barker?” 

‘‘ 1 attach more importance, Mrs. Spread, to the social circle 
about it.” 

“ 1 am for a round table and a round of dinners,’ said Mr. St. 
Leger. 

“ When people know how to give them,” said Barker. 

‘‘ And whom to ask to them,” said Laura Smyly. 

” W hich very few do,” said the bachelor. 

‘‘The circle,” said the mathematical Philip, ‘‘is tlie perfect 
figure.” 

‘‘ The social figure, at all events,” said Spread, ‘‘ and now, Mrs. 
Martin, take a glass of Madeira with me, that has gone the rounds.” 

‘‘ xVnd Bend it round to Mrs. Spread and me,” suggested Barker. 

‘‘ After all. Barker, old Narrowsmith gave us one or two fair 
bottles of wine.” 

” They must have spoiled the dinner,” said Laura Srnyly. 

The remark tickled Mr. Barker; Laura was gaining ground 
rapidly in his good opinion. 

What a cynical remark,” said Mrs. Spread. 

‘‘1 agree with Miss Smyly,” said Barker; ‘‘it reminds me of 
what Launce says — ‘ 1 would have one that takes upon him to he a 
dog, to be a dog all things.' ” 

‘‘ Elizabeth, my love,” whispered Mrs. Martin to that too taciturn 
young lady. ‘‘ why don’t you talk to Mr. Owlet? say something im- 
proving or entertaining.” 

Elizabeth reasonably thought ‘.hat Mr. Owlet should rather be 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


80 

sayinj? something instructive or euterlaininir to her; but the reverend 
gentleman was just getting into a mediaeval disciission with Laura 
§myly, who Had a scrap ot intelligence on most subjects, and per- 
fectly understood Mrs. Martin’s principle of adaptation. 

Mrs, Martin paid close attention to what passed between Owdet 
and Miss Smyly, simply wiih the view ot finding an opening 
through whicli she might again urge Elizabeth to take part in the 
conversation; and, whenever she saw what seemed a fair opportun- 
ity, she kept nudging and pinching the poor girl, dinning in her ear, 
“Establish a fact, my love,” or “Now do. my dear, deduce a 
moral.” 

The party that assembled in the drawing room was not a large 
one, having been invited chiefly for the sake of Miss Medlicott, who 
occupied a larger space in Philip’s consideration, now that he 
found she had claims to be considered a heroine. Mrs. Narrow- 
smith thought it strange that Grace should have been invited at all,, 
and had, with the ready concurrence ot her amiable daughter, fully 
determined to leave her behind; but this was overruled by ]\lr. 
Narrdwsmith, who perceived that it would be displeasing ‘to his 
partner, and he happened to have several petty reasons (pending the 
proceedings to dissolve the partnership) lor doing everything to 
conciliate and propitiate Mr. Spread. Accordingly, at tlie proper 
hour, Grace proceeded to her room, to make preparations for the 
party at the Spreads. 

It was DO fit bower for a girl of delicate constitution, and the 
tastes and habits ot a lady; a garret, adjacent to that occupied by 
Mrs. Dorothea Potts, and not very superior in its furniture and ac- 
commodations, There was a small bedstead, scantily curtained 
with dingy blue- white dimity; a few sorry chairs; a mean dressing- 
table, with a paltry looking-glass; a rickety-chest ot drawers, a few 
odds and ends of well-worn carpeting, no fire in the grate, and on 
the chimney-piece some miserable fragments of knickknackery^ 
which had formerly decked the drawing-room, a fire-screen of rice- 
paper, a stone-peach, ana a tea cup of Nankin china, without a 
handle. The chronic chill of this wretched chamber was aggra- 
vated by a broken pane of glass, which an eflort had been made to 
repair with an old newspaper and a few waters; but one of the 
wafers had yielded, and the paper w^as flapping to and fro, while 
the wind amused itself by blowing about the flame of the solitary 
end of candle by whose capricious glimmer the niece ot one ot the 
wealthiest mgi'chants in England was struggling to make her even- 
ing toilet. . 

But when, bringing up the rear of the miser’s party, she entered 
Mrs. Spread’s drawing-room what a charming contrast she was to 
her forward cousin, arrayed in bright blue muslin, with a bunch ot 
gaudy rosps in her liair, an nnwdeldv amethyst brooch stuck at her 
waist, and flourishing a bouquei ot the ghastliest flowers. Mrs. 
Narrowsmith again glistered in her yellow satin, now in its third 
season, with the lurbau on her head that would have astonished the 
Turks, She, too, had her broom to brandish, winterier still than 
Maria Theresa’s. 

Mrs. Spread’s invitation had named nine o’clock, but the Nar- 
rowsmiths did not arrive until ten, which they thought a stroke ot 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAisY. 81 

“genlility,” as people like the Narrowsniiths aucl Marables uni- 
tormly do. 

Laura Smyly was sitting near iVlr. Barker as Mrs. Narrowsmith 
swaggiu’ed in. Laura called the bachelor’s attention to a small 
thermometer, which hung on the wall behind her, and pretended 
that it was sensibly affected on the entrance of the miser’s wife. 

The fair Miss Narrowsmith was grievously disconcerted at find- 
ing that there was to be no dancing; Narrowsmiths and Marables 
Irave no notion of an evening party without dancing; and how they 
do dance when they set about it! However, there would have been 
a quadrille that evening (so good-natured and complaisant was Mrs. 
Spread), only that Philip could not be prevailed on to dance with 
Maria Theresa, which would have been an indispensable civility. 

Fortunately tor Mrs Spread, there was no great necessity to dedi- 
cate her^elt ver3’-long to Mrs. Narrowsmith, for that incomparable 
woman was not very tond of conversation with people who either 
did not, or could not, talk of dyeing and turning, the misdeeds of 
servants and suits for spoliated kitchen-stuff. JBesides, there was 
a certain Lady 'Wrixon in the room, the wife of a be-knighted Lon- 
don alderman, and Mrs, Narrowsmith soon began to rub her. yellow 
satin skirts against this personage’s crimson velvet ones, partly 
because the “city madam “ was dignified with a title, and partly 
with a view to get a coriect picture of fashionable life in London, 
which her ladyship could not but be familiar with, as he had a grand 
house in a giand square, being no other than Finsbury. Thus Mrs. 
Spread was enabled lo have a long chat with Grace Medlicott, and 
did not leave her side until she saw that Philip coveted her place, 
having found five minutes’ colloquial commerce with the pitiful 
merchant's daughter business enough in that line for a single even- 
ing!:- 

Philip now monopolized Grace in his turn, and made her go over 
her shipwreck again, expressing in the most ardent terms his ad- 
.miration of her Itortitude and gallantry; and puzzling her a little, 
too, now and then, with questions respecting “ the law of storms,” 
and the “ rotary motion of hurricanes,” which (although practically 
acquainted with the subject much better than he was) she did not 
find herself competent to answer. Among other incidents which 
she related in her account of that fearful night, she mentioned the 
fact of a lady, one of the passengers, wlio, in the mental aberraliou 
of delirium, produced by excessive terror, sung several snatches of 
songs with a voice of great power and feeling. This suggested to 
Philip the inquiry whether Grace sung herself. She replied, bash- 
fully, that she did sing a tittle, but had not sung for a long lime. 
He pressed her a point beyond the bounds o1 politeness, and it ended 
by her consenting to try a simple air, it she had not forgotten the 
words. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Spread had been anxious to have a little music, 
in order to afford ]\liss Narrowsmith an opportunity of displaying 
her powers, more particularly as Hie siren of Rodney Street had 
been disappointed in her expectations of a ball. Mr. Spread made 
some objection on the part- of Barker, who detested the piano as 
much as cowards do the trumpet that calls them to the battle-field; 
but Mrs. Spread wbuld not hear of it; she had no notion of humor- 


82 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


ing one of her guests, no matter how old a friend, at the expense 
of the company in general; and her husband could not demur to so 
just a decision. Spread himself liked music in a pleasant, social 
unmusical sort of way; that is to say, he liked without understand- 
ing it, preferred an old ballad to a modern melody, and thought the 
words of a song a very important part of it. Miss Narrowsmith 
was a songstress of too much consequence to sit down to the piano 
without repeated solicitations; but Mrs. Spread, knowing her to 
belong to that school ot young ladies who are nevei more resolute 
to sing than when they urge twenty reasons lor not singing, took 
care good-naturedly to press her request the proper lengih, and Miss 
Maria Theresa was ultimately prevailed on to favor the circle with 

“ I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls,” 

which, after several graceful oscillations of her head, a few prelimi- 
nary false statements to the effect that slie had several varieties of 
colds, and the playful toss of her ghastly bouquet down on the in- 
strument, she proceeded to execute, in her most brilliant manner, 
the tip-top brarara style of tlie boarding-schools. 

There were several people in the company, particularly Lady 
Wrixon, the Crackenthorpes, and the Hooks, who thought the per- 
formance very good. Maria Theresa's voice, in fact, was not a bad 
one. Had her vocal powers been under the direction ot a corrector 
taste, they were capable of considerably better things; indeed, even 
such as they were, she would have displayed them that evening to 
much better advantage had she not been annoyed and disti acted 
by observing that Philip Spread was paying no attention whatever to 
her strains, but entirely absorbed in conveisation with Grace Med- 
licott. 

Mr. and Mrs. Spread, however, had been “ all ear ” from first to 
last, and it was in the social merchant’s most Grandisonian manner, 
and with his blandest smiles and politest compliments, that he took 
the red light arm of Miss Narrowsmith, and led her from the piano 
to a seat by the side of her mother, in a distant corner of the room. 

Poor little Grace took the vacant place at ihe piano, unnoticed by 
any of the Narrowsmiths, or, indeed, by any one but Philip and 
his mother. A group in the middle of the room intercepted her 
from the view ot Mrs. Narrowsmith and Maria Theresa. Barker 
was one ot the group, and had jwst engaged in a peppery discussion 
with a Mr. Hooke and a Mr. Cooke, upon some of llie political 
questions of the day. 

Perhaps the reader may remember, or may not object to have re- 
called to his memory, the following passage from the fable of “ The 
Flower and the Leaf,” where the ” rude performance ” of the gold- 
finch is contrasted with the finished melody of the nightingale: 

“ Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye. 

And saw a medlar tree was planted nigh; 

The spreading branches made a goodly show, 

And full of opening blooms was every bough. 

A goldfinch there Isaw^ with gaudy pride 
Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side, 

Still pecking as she pass’d; and still she drew 
The sweets from every flower, and suck’d the dew; 

Sufficed, at length, she warbled in her throat. 

And tuned her voice to many a lively note, 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY 


83 


But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear, 

Yet such as soothed my soul, and pleased my ear. 

Her rude performance was no sooner tried. 

When she I sought— f/ie nightingale^YQT^Med.^ 

So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung, 

That the grove echoed, and the vallej’^ rung. 

And I, so ravish’d with her heavenly note, 

I stood entranced, and had no room for thought.” 

This was the case with Hhilip Spread, when Grace warbled the 
first words of that exquisite Shakespearean wood-note, ' 

“ Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 

And Phoebus ’gins arise. 

His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies.” 

It was magical, electrical. Even Barker felt it, and stopped 
wrangling. The question ran through the room, “ Who is ii?” 
The applause was no longer confined to Crackenthorpes — there were 
exclamations of rapture from all quarters, and Mrs. Jsarrowsmith 
and her daughter (echoing the voices about them) had just pro- 
nounced the words, “enchanting and divine,” when the group in 
the middle of the apartment sudilenl}^ opened, ar]d disclosed to 
their astonished view that it was their despised relative who had pre- 
sumed to sing. 

Not until that moment had any of the Narrowsmiths been aware 
that (Hace possessed the talent which she now exhibited in such 
perfection. Her triumph was not the less complete that it was 
timid and unintentional. Unfortunately, she gained iw'o victories 
b3’’ one achievement. Her cousin was eclipsed, and Philip Spread 
was at her feet. 

No female accomplishment excites so much attention as that 
which this modest and retiring girl had unexpectedly showm herself 
mistress of. She became at once an object of intense curiosity and 
interest to all who either heard her performance, or whom the tame 
of it reached. Every tongue was busy; people were no longer con- 
tent with the vague account which seemed to be all that the Nar- 
rowsmiths were disposed to give of her. In short, there was a reso- 
lution to know as much about so attractive a young woman as could 
be ascertained; and as all were not as delicate as the Spreads in 
prosecuting inquiries into family matters, a good deal of additional 
light was thrown ou the subject in the course of a lew days. Al- 
though she went by the name of Medlicott, she was (as Mr. Spread 
had suspected) the daughter of a brother of Mr. Narrowsniith. But 
she was related to his wife also. Her father, after a series of strug- 
gles in the paths of literature, to him more flowery than fruitful, 
had left England and settled at Bermudas, where he married a Miss 
Montserrat, a lady in possession of a large fortune, which was, 
however, disputed b} another branch of the family, the representa- 
tive of which was the father of Mrs. Isaac Narrow^smith, her first 
cousin. As Mrs. Isaac was an only child, her personal interest in 
this dispute was a deep one, and a considerable part of the expense 
of the law proceedings, which were instituted in the colonial courts, 
was secretly borne by her wealthy and rapacious husband. The 
cause came to final adjudication on the very day that Grace Medii- 
cott was born. The decision w^as against her father; it was a heavy 
blow, but it was accompanied by one heavier beyond measure. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


84 

The same hour that d<‘privecl him of his wife’s fortune bereaved ‘him 
of herself. Against the latter sentence there was no appeal; against 
the former he was advised to seek relief from the tiibunals of Eng- 
land, and for his daughter’s sake he ought to have done so; but he 
had always been deficient in energy, and now, completely paralyzed 
by affliction, he s\iftered the law io take its course without a strug- 
gle. JSTothiug remained but a small appointment which he held 
under the crown. It enabled him, however, with strict economy, 
to give his daughter the education of a gentlewoman. He lived 
untTl she reached her eighteenth year, when he was carried oQ: by a 
severe and sudden illiiess, which scarcely afforded him time to 
execute a will which he placed in tlie hands of a trusty servant, 
which instructions to conduct his daughter to England, and com- 
mit her to the care of his brother, at Liverpool. 

Long before the date at which this story commences, Tdrs. Nar- 
rowsmlth had inherited, upon her father’s death, the estate in Ber- 
mudas which the father of Grace Medlicott had surrendered without 
opposition. It was worth a thousand pounds a year and had been 
settled upon the miser’s daughter. All this was soon known, and 
(as such matters usually are all over the world) was much talked of 
in Liverpool circles, suspicious and ill-natured people not beingslow 
to hazard a variety of unfounded observations, reflecting upon the 
share the Narrowsmiths had in the transactions in question. As to 
Mrs. 8pread. she merely expressed her anxious hope that the rights 
of M»ss Medlicott had not been sacrificed. 

“ We must presume the contrary,” replied her husband; “ at all 
events, there is no ground whatever for imputing anything im- 
proper to her relations; it is no fault of theirs that the colonial law- 
yers decided in their lavor.” 

‘‘No; but, my dear, suppose the decision of the colonial lawyers 
to he wrong?” 

” How is it to be reversed, you mean— who is there to act for 
Miss Medlicott? 1 see a difficulty there, 1 confess; but come, my 
love, we must not let our feelings transport us too far, and. above ail 
things, we must avoid intermeddling intheafiairsof our neighbors.” 

CHAPTER XV. 

Some men are bom great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrust upon them . — Twelfth Night. 

The Furies of the Real World — Further Acquaintance of the Spreads 
with Miss Medlicott — The Trials of that Young Lady — Her 
Conquest of Philip — ]\lr. Barker returns to Town — How he per- 
formed the Duties of a Printer’s Devil — Bow he acted as a 
Common Carrier — Mrs. Harry Farquhar again — Portrait of 
that Lgdy— The Bachelor pays for interfering in the Question 
of the Spreads’ Change of Residence — He gets a smart Scold- 
ing, and narrowly escapes Something smarter still — Fortune 
thrusts Honor and Responsibility upon him — Mr. Spread per- 
plexed — Mysterious Disappearance of Grace Medlicott and 
Plulip Spread. 

Malice, envy, and uncharitableness, you are the furies of the 
real world. There needs no Alecto, with her discordant trump, no 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


85 


adder -crowned Megaeara, no Tissiplione with scorpion whip, to vex, 
to poison, and torment us. You, with the aid of the money-fiend, 
are suilicieni for all mischief; and the four of you have now taken 
possession of the Narrowsmiths, and formed a league against an un- 
protected girl. 

into the gloomy interior of a mansion infested by these evil spirits 
it is not our pleasure, and fortunately not our business, to pene- 
trate. This is a tale of the Bachelor ot the Albany, not of Grace 
Medlicott; and our ]>reference of summer to winter, and of the 
sunny points ot life to its cold hollows, disposes us to keep as much 
as possible in the company ot the Spreads and Smylys, and associate 
as little as can be helped with the Narrotvsmiths and their friends. 

But a few particulars more of the history of Miss Medlicott it will 
be proper to relate, before we lose sight ot her, as the Spreads them- 
selves soon did, ignorant ot her tale, and almost uncertain ot her 
existence. 

She never sung again in Liverpool, save once or twice at Mrs. 
Spreads, when there was no company; but it was only once oi twice 
that this occurred; indeed, they would have seen very little more of 
Grace, after the evening of her fatal triumph, had it not been that 
fortunately Mrs. Narrowsmith and her daughter went for a tew 
■weeks to London, on a visit to Lady Wiixon, and then there was 
both increased facility ot access to Rodney Street and less difficulty- 
of getting Miss Medlicott to come to Abercromby Square. 

What strongly excited the attention of Mrs. Spread, in the com- 
mencement of her acquaintance with this young person, was her 
seeming unconsciousness of the iron natures ot.the people with 
whom she lived, while no other eye could help perceivintr that she 
was indebted to her sordid relatives for little more liberality and at- 
tention ihan she would have found in a common asylum tor female 
orphans. It talkes time to open the pure eyes of geneious and un- 
suspicious youth to the meannesses and inhumanities of the world. 

Giace had slowly to be convinced that she was irksome to tJie re- 
lations whose duty it was to cherish and protect her. She was a 
burden in the house of which she was the only embellishment and 
honor. The narrow economy of the entire establi>hmeni blinrled 
her to the fact that, toward her, parsimony was more than parsi- 
monious. She felt herself pinched without knowing who it was 
that pinched. She was grateful for ill-usage, and returned coldness 
with warmth. “How few people,” she argued, “were like the 
Spreads! Discomfort was the custom of the house, and why should 
she (a dependent, though a relation) be more comfortable than the 
rest of the tamily; as to the tempers of her aunt and cousin, those 
were little failings of character upon which she, ot all people living, 
ought not to be severe.” 

But there was no mistaking the real state of the case, when malice 
and envy came into play. She then ceased to be the object of a con- 
temptuous protection, and was elevated into an object of jealousy 
and rancor. On the morning ot the next day but one that succeed- 
ed Mrs. Spread’s party, Mr. Narrow^smith, fumbling in his pockets 
in search of some small piece of money, tor some indispensable dis- 
bursement, produced the selt-same silver tourpenny, the finding ot 
which on the carpet, about a fortnight before, he had piously 


86 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


ascribed to a direct intervention of Providence. Jle recognized it 
by a small bole drilled through the center. So did Grace Medlicott; 
it was hers; the only property she i)ossessed in money wlien she 
arrived in I’odney Street: yet she did not, she could not, bung her- 
self to claim it— it went as her anonymous contributiop to the 
weekly expenses ot the opulent miser. 

From that iiour her bread wa-; bitter, and would have been so, 
had it been that of the royal table. From that hour it became a 
steep and wearisome journey up to her dieary attic; and wearisome 
it would have been had it been the bower of Rosamond, or the 
chamber of an Infanta But she did not reveal the bitterness of her 
lot to the Spreads, not at least with her lips, or intentionally even 
by her looks. Those looks, however, told her tale in a language 
which Mrs. Spread, with her quick-sighted tenderness, understood 
as well as it it had been written for her reading. Of all the 
Spreads, Philip was the last to take an interest in Miss Medlicott. 
She had no pretensions to beauty, and, though shipwrecked in a 
tempest, she was unacquainted wiih the theory of storms. The 
Smylys were both handsomer and wittier; and then lie w’as con- 
fessedly “in love with Miss Marable, or at all events with Bessie 
Bomford.” But Grace had her advantages, too. iSature did not 
write the word gentleman more legibly on the brow of Uncle Toby 
thanMie bad written that of lady on the forehead, indeed in every 
feature, of Miss Medlicott. She was artless, pure, fresh, and tnor- 
oughly unworldly and unselfish; the very incarnation of truth and 
modesty. In the one accomplishment which she possessed, she was 
unrivaled; and then she was an orphan, a wanderer, like a casket 
of pearls without an owner, cast by the waves upon a savage shore. 
These were powerful attractions; and they did not fail, after some 
time, to make an impression upon the susceptible, mind of Philip, 
wdio w^as musical, roaiantic, and had all the benevolence of his 
father in his blood. The impression once made, grew deeper and 
deeper rapidly; every meeting with Grace strengthened, every song 
she sung improved it, until at length the feeling extended itself 
toward that warm region of the mind which borders upon the 
heart’s territory, and Philip was wounded for the first time with the 
“ rich golden shaft.” It “ killed the flock of all other afiTections in 
him;” he flirted with the Smylys no more — thought no more of 
Miss Marable, or Bessie Bomford. 

It was a most indiscreet attachment, but it was not the less strong 
upon that account. 

“ Will Love be controlled by advice? 

Will Cupid our mothers obey?” 

All the members of Philip’s family had, by their admiration of 
Grace, and their enthusiasm about her, unwittingly contributed to a 
result which they deplored exiremely, as soon as their eyes were 
open to it. The previous character of Philip’s love affairs— the im- 
petuosity with which they commenced, and the levity with which 
they were abandoned — made his friends inattentive to symptoms 
which would otherwise have excited their suspicions. Then parents, 
in such cases, are commonly as blind as love itself; and they are 
blindest precisely where they ought to be most quick-sighted, where 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 87 

the attachments formed by their children are most, irreconcilable 
with prudence. The Spreads were far from being worldly people, 
but they were as far trom despising wealth as they were from 
worshiping it. With all the interest they took in Mr. Narrow- 
smith’s niece, and notwithstanding the high opinion they enter- 
tained both of her heart and her understanding, they considered the 
young lady a very ineligible match for Philip; and it deeply dis- 
tressed them to perceive, as at length they did, that it was no 
longer possible to cultivate her society with a due regard to the wel- 
fare of their son. 

But we return to the bachelor of the Albany. Fortune had still 
several tricks to play upon him, though she suffered him to return 
in peace to his London lodging, with the single exception of influ- 
encing Mrs. Martin to make him the bearer of some corrected proofs 
of her “ British Step-mothers.” The reader is left to guess whether 
it was under the control of Fortune or Discretion that Laura Smyly 
at the same time repressed a strong inclination she had to beg of Mr. 
Barker to be the carrier of a small parcel, which she was anxious to 
forward to a friend of hers at Brompton. That IMr. Barker offered 
to execute, and actually did execute, that commission, surprised 
nobody that knew him : they put it down to the very perverseness 
of his humor. 

But our Diogenes had not been three days in his tub before his 
temper had to undergo a very rough trial indeed. In crossing the 
designs of Mrs. Harry Farquliar, by influencing the Spreads to settle 
at Richmond instead of Norwood, he involved himself in more 
difficulties than one. 

Mrs. Harry Farquhar, J,he pretty little Amazon of Norwood, after 
storming about the room for several minutes, rang the bell waspish- 
l3% and ordered he*’ pony-phaeton. The phaeton was at the door in 
a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Harry jumped in, whip in hand, and 
looking as it she was very much inclined to use it on the person of a 
quiet, respectable gentleman who stood by, doing his best to be 
civil, as became a dutiful husband, for that was the humble situa- 
tion he held in his lady’s household. 

She was a pretty, a wickedlj^-pretty woman, with an insolent ej^e, 
and a glowing, passionate complexion. Like Hermia, in the ” Mid- 
summer Night’s Dream,” 

“ Though she was but little, she was fierce.” 

She had a pert, expert, and malapert tongue, that could libel or 
scold one in a leash of languages. When she was coquettish, she 
prattled French ; when she was transcendental, she chattered German ; 
«he rated hei servants, including Mr. Farquhar, in plain English. 
You saw by her toilet she was a termagant; she was too hasty for 
buttons; and too violent for hooks and eyes. She wore/the prettiest 
of bonnets, but wore them awry. There was generally a trail of 
black ribbon at her heels; and her dress behind was always open — 
to observation. In one point, however, she excelled: she knew how 
to put on a shawl — a rare knowledge with our countrywomen. She 
w'as commonly, too, bien coiffee and bieii gante, except when she 
tossed her hair, or tore off her gloves in a conjugal //‘rtcas. 

Leaving her ponies in charge of her servant, standing at the en- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


88 

trance lo the Albany in Piccadilly, she strutted, whip in hand,, in 
her brazen, tearless way, toward the bachelor’s Chambers, the num- 
ber ot which she had first learned from the porter. 

Reynolds answered her bold knock and her sharp application to 
the bell. 

“ Is Mr. Barker at home?” 

Reynolds hesitated, and was lost. In a moment the bachelor was 
startled from a chapter of Rabelais, which he was devouring, by the 
apparition ot a lady in his mnctum-sanctorum, and the last lady he 
would have coveted a visit from. She bustled in, affectedly smiling 
and simpering, but with half an eye you could see the snake among 
the flowers. 

“ You are surprised at a visit from me, Mr. Barker— no, thank 
you, 1 siia’n't sii down. You never come lo see me, Mr. Barker.” 

Barker had never been so completely thrown oft his center before; 
he muttered something about being glad to see Mrs. Farquhar, and 
an humble inquiry as to tfie fortunate circumstances to which he 
was to ascribe the honor she had done him. 

‘‘Perhaps I’m come to give 5’^ou a little bit of a scolding, Mr. 
Barker,” still smiling, but the snake more visible every moment. 

Barker bit his lip, grew a little white, and said that. ‘‘ Ignorant as 
he was of having given any offense, he hoped she would see the 
propriety of reserving her favors of that description tor Mr. Far- 
quhar.” 

This stung her little ladyship, but she passed it over, in her eager- 
ness to come to the main point, which was her desire to know what 
he meant by interfering in the affairs of her sister’s family. 

” Madam!” said Barker, not perceiving her drift. 

‘‘ The Spreads must live at Richmond to please jmu, Mr. Barker; 
they can’t take a house at Norwood, dear nie, because you presume 
to intrude.” 

‘‘ The intrusion, madam, is not upon my part,” said Barker, bow- 
ing, and almost glancing at the door. 

“ To meddle in what’s no affair of yours,” continued the pretty 
vixen, slapping her dress with her whip. 

‘‘ Really, Mrs. Farquhar,” said Barker, with the severest gravity, 
and anxious to disembarrass himself of his visitor, ” I can discover 
no adequate motive for this strange proceeding on your part, un- 
less, indeed, you are come to horsewhip me.” 

” Now, don’t you deserve it, sir?’ '.said the pretty little Amazon, 
again slapping her dress; but now she did it rather playfully, and 
with a simpering laugh, beginning to be sensible that she had placed 
herself in a false position, and that her best course was to laugh her- 
self out of it. Barker ought to have built a bridge of gold for the 
flying enemy, but he could not resist tlie temptation of replying, and 
he made the reply in his acrimonious manner: 

” 1 have not thie honor to be your husband, Mrs. Harry; if 1 had — ” 
glancing at the horsewhip, with the plainest intimation that in that 
case it would infallibly change hands. 

‘‘ If you had, you would know letter than to interfere in what is 
none of your business, Mr. Peter — Peter the Hermit — we all know 
what Kind of hermits you bachelors of the Albany are — your char- 
acters.” 


« 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 89 

“Take care of your own character, madam; you will have no 
sinecure office,'’ rejoined Barker, vehemently. 

“ My character is in no great danger here, at all events,” retorted 
Mrs. Harry, with a look bo point-blank at Mi. Barker’s grizzled 
hair, that never did arrow go direcler to the mark. She was so 
content, indeed, with the blow, that she accompanied it with a con- 
tumelious courtesy, and thought it a good opportunity for retreat- 
ing, which Keynolds, who had witnessed the scene (not without ap- 
prehensions for his master’s safety), gave her every facility for 
doing. However, she did not return to her ponies without several 
brandishes of her whip, and a muttered volley of ” mischief -mjiking 
bachelors ” and “ Peter the Hermit,” three times over. 

As to Mr. Barker, being of the more laconic sex, he vented his 
wrath in the single exclamation: 

“ Wh}”- the fieud does not that boobv, Lord John Yore, revive the 
good old English institution of the ducking-stool!” He then turned 
savagely upon his man, and Reynolds was very near being cashiered 
for keeping the door so carelessly. 

Your short woman is more effective in the world than your tall 
one. The Vastabellas and Altadoras have something masculine 
about them, which puts us on our mettle, and makes it a point of 
honor to have our own way with them. But the Parvulas and the 
Minimas are women all over; they rely on their sex alone, and man- 
hood less hrm than Mr. Barker’s has no chance against them. The 
ascendency of woman is inversely as her strength and stature. 
The lotty beauties are most stared and marveled at; but it is the 
small, tiglit woman that sways the world — werrean, of course, when 
she is pretty and piquant, hien chaussee, eoiffee, ganU, and Mrs. 
Harry Farquhar sometimes was all that. 

But this visitation was mere child’s play compared to ihe inhuman 
Sport which our bachelor’s evil genius was preparing to make with 
him at the self-same moment in another and distant place. His 
journe}'^ to Liverpool had already involved him in several embarrass- 
ments; he had been threatened with a most objectionable nephew, 
entrapped into a most perilous flirtation, turned to the uses oi a 
printer’s devil by a blue-stocking governess, and now his malignant 
star stands right over the House of Commons, menacing a still more 
direct and flagrant violation of his deep-laid scheme of life, but con- 
tinuing all the while to entangle his fortunes with those of the fair 
sex, the most embarrassing course that the fortunes of a Benedick 
could take. 

It will be remembered, thnt at the moment Miss Medlicott sat 
down to sing at the late eventful party at Mrs. Spread’s, Mr. Barker 
was engaged in a warm political squabble with two or three gentle- 
men, who occupied, in a group, the center of the room. A few days 
subsequently, Mr. Spread was w^aited upon at his counting-house 
by two of these gentlemen. They were intimate friends, and their 
business w’as to consult him about the selection of a tit and proper 
person to represent a borough in Yorkshire, in which they w’ere in- 
terested, and with which Mr. Spread was well acquainted. In fact, 
they came as a kind of deputation from the constituency of the 
borough. 

” Have you anybody in your eye?” asked the merchant. 


90 THE BACHELOB OE THE ALBANY. 

“ Why, we have,” replied Mr. Crooke, one of the deputation; 
“ we have a friend of 5'^ours in our eye, but we wish to do nolliing 
without your advice and approbation.” 

“ Who is your man?” inquired Spread. 

” A gentleman whom we met the other evening at your house, 
said Mr. Hooke, the other deputy. 

“Sir George Wrixon?” 

“No.” 

” Mr. Motherwit?” 

‘‘No. no.” 

“ Who, then? I can’t guess.” 

” Why— Mr. Barker, to be sure,” said Crooke. 

Spread had as hearty a laugh as he ever enjoyed in his life. 
When he had laughed enough, he frankly informed the deputation 
that the.y possibly could not have thought ol a gentleman worse 
qualified for a seat in parliament, to say nothing of the fact of his 
having an insuperable objection to oflioe or business of any kind. 

Both Hooke and Ciooke were of opinion that it would be easy to 
overcome an objection of so vague a nature. 

” But,” said Mr. Spread, ” the character of my friend Barker is 
no secret. It would be the most mistaken delicacy on my part (since 
you have done me the honor of asking my opinion) not to state to 
you frankly, that he is far too impracticable and crotchety a man to 
make a useful member of parliament.” 

‘‘ We area crotchety constituency ourselves,” said Mr. Hooke, 
laughing. 

“ W^e won’t quarrel with him at Borouglicross for being crotchety 
and impracticable,” said Hooke’s colleague. 

‘‘ Upon my word, then, gentlemen,” said Mr. Spread, with his 
laughing eye, ‘‘ my friend Barker is just the man to suit you; only 
the misfortune is, that you would easier persuade him to go up in a 
balloon than to go into the House of Commons.” 

‘‘ We’ll engage to return him without a shilling expense,” said 
Mr. Crooke. 

” He wouldn’t go into parliament for ten thousand a year,” said 
Spread, speaking seriously, and rising at the same time, in order to 
put an end to the conference, as he had important business on his 
hands. 

Messrs. Hooke and Crooke retired, and Mr. Spread thought no more 
of their ridiculous project. But just as he was on the point of leav-, 
ing the counting-house to return home to dinner, the same pair of 
commissioners called again, with Mr. CrackenthorpeandMr. Marable 
along with them, and Mr. Spread could hardly believe his ears when 
he was assured, by all four, that nobody else in all England but 
Barker would be likely to carry the election for Boroughcross; and 
that they had accordingly resolved to propose him, nolens volens, or 
rather, without giving him any intimation of the honor designed 
him. 

” Well, gentlemen,” said Spread, ‘‘take your own way; but re- 
member 1 warn you that you will only throw away* your time and 
money. You might just as well return General Tom Thumb.” 

‘‘ Now, Spread,” said Mr, Crooke, ‘‘ all we request of 5'ou is, that 
you will keep the thing quiet — not a word to Barker, tor your life.’* 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


91 

But Spread, very properly, declined to make any such promise. 
It was, indeed, a grave question, whether, knowing Barker’s almost 
fanatical repugnance to duty of all kinds, he ought to suffer him to 
be brought into the position of embarrassment where as a tribute to 
the crookedness of his politics the eccentric electors of Borough- 
cross seemed determined to place him. No doubt, the honor 
would be very considerable, of being returned to parliament in the 
manner juoposed, and it was just as possible that it ruight act upon 
Barker’s vanity, so as to induce him to retain the seat, once “ thrust 
upon him,” like “ greatness ” upon poor Malvolio. In tad. Barker 
was a very difficult man to understand or deal with. It was hard 
to know ” where to have him.” 

Upon the whole, Mr. Spread was in a state of no little perplexity 
that evening. His love of the comedy ot life halt disposed him to 
assist fortune in playing a practical joke upon his triend, and he 
was powerfully supported in this merry view of the matter by 
Adelaide and Laura Smyly, who had fun enough in them to chase 
the tragic muse out of the world. Mrs, Spread, on the contrary, 
whose good-humor never made her forget her benevolence tor a 
moment, was ot opinion that her husband should immediately ap- 
prise Mr. Barker ot what was going on. Always disposed himself 
to the straightforward course in every transaction of life, and doubly 
pleased when he took the right way with the sanction or at the sug- 
gestion of his wife. Spread made up his mind to write the next day 
to Barker; and if he did not keep his resolution, it will be admitted 
that there was excuse enough for his breaking it, and, indeed, for 
losing sight of the subject altogether, for before breakfast the fol- 
lowing morning the startling news was received that Grace Medli- 
cott had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from her uncle’s 
house, and this was quickly followed by the equally alarming and 
unaccountable discovery that Philip had started for London, by the 
express -train, at daybreak — the first independent step, amounting 
to a seeming breach" of filial duty, which Philip had ever taken. 

The first impression naturally was that this double flight was the 
result of concert between the fugitives; but a letter which Philip 
left tor his mother dissipated that suspicion, and satisfied all his 
family that, having received intelligence of the step taken by the 
unprotected girl, he had merely followed her with the chivalrous 
design of guarding her amid the pel ils of the metropolis. A peril- 
ous place London certainly is for defenseless maidenhood; but when 
innocence and beauty arc championed by love and romance, the 
protector is generally in greater danger than the protegee. The 
recollection ot this made the Spreads very unhappy about their son. 
As to the cause of Grace’s disappearance, it was only too easily di- 
vined. Mrs. Narrowsmith had returned to Liverpool, and no doubt 
the unfortunate girl had no longer been able to endure the tyranny 
df her protectors. Mr. Spread, upon reflection, thought it likely 
that she had resolved upon turning her talents to account, and sup- 
porting herself in the situation of a governess. But still drearier 
explanations naturally occurred to the minds of other members of 
the family. K bush in the dark, as the poet says, is easily mistaken 
for a bear. 


92 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


CHAPTER XVl. 

Sous quel astre, mon Dieu, faut il que je sois n6, 

Pour etre de facheux tou jours assassin^? 

II semble que partx)ut le sort me les addresse, 

Et je vois chaque jour quelque nouvelle esp6ce. 

Molikre. 

The Topic ot the Clubs— Mrs. Harry Parqiibar elect ion eer ibi? — 
Masculine Women and Ladylike Men— Perverse Purity of the 
Electors of Borou^rhcross— Tom l\irner writes a spicy Article- 
How ]\Trs. Harry went clown to the Borough, and in what State 
she returned to Town— The “ Times ” of the lOth of February 
— How Barker was advertised for— How he was aftected by Ids 
Return to Parliament— His Correspondence with Mr. Spread- 
Troubles of Parliamentary Lite— The Bachelor becomes the 
Topic of the Day— Receives a letter from his old Writing- 
Master— Takes the Uaths and his Seat— Is invited to the 
Rosary — Is advertised tor again. 

The bruit soon ran through the clubs, that Barker of the Albany 
was coming into parliament. Creat was the mirth, many the spec- 
ulations to which the rumor gave rise, 

“ Returned by Wormwood Scrubbs, 1 presume,” said Saunter, a 
lounging lord of the Treasury, and member for Lazenby. 

“ 1 should guess Bath,” said Will Whitebait, a porpoise and a 
dandy. ” 1 can’t imagine a filter colleague for Roebuck.” 

“I’m told,” said Tom Turner, another 'J’reasury lord, a lady’s 
man, ” that he knows nothing of what is going on; and that, if he 
is returned, he will throw up his seat— take theChiltern Hundreds.” 

” Ho,” sail the first Treasury lordling, ” he w^on’t do that, for 
fear ot being called on for an account of his stewardship.” 

it happened that one ot these gentlemen, Tom Turner, was a 
great fiiend and ally of Mrs. Henry Farquhar, wlio, tor some time 
back, had been extremely desirous to push her noodle ot a husband 
into parliament. On the same day that the above short conversa- 
tion took place, Turner was visiting at Norwood, and suggested to 
Mrs. Harry that she would have a very fair chance at Boroughcross; 
it would be so easy to convince the electors that their votes would 
be only thrown away upon the individual they proposed to return, 
as he had an insurmountable objection to public life, and \vould 
positively never take his seat. ‘‘ The expense may be about five or 
six hundred pounds,” said’Mr. Turner. 

Mr. Farquhar ventured to observe that he thought this a reason- 
able sura; bul his -wife looked as it she did not care a fico what he 
thought upon the subject. A hubbub among the little Farquhars 
happening to be audible at that moment, she directed her husband 
to go and restore order. 

Indeed,” she said, ” the day is so fine, 1 think you had better 
take the coach, and give the children an airing. 1 shall ride out 
with Mr. Turner.” 


THE BACHELOll OF THE ALBAHY. 


93 


Mr. Farquhar was submissively proceeding to execute this mis- 
sion, so becoming of a man and a would be senator, when his wile 
called him back, and added — “ Now, 1 beg you won’t let Helen 

take cold: and remember, either going or returning, to call at Sur- 
geon Deni’s, and get him to look at Louisa’s teeth.” 

‘‘ Who is our opponent?” said the manly Mrs. Harry to Tom 
Turner, after her ladyliuc husband had left the room. 

‘‘ A man you know — Barker.” 

” Barker! what Barker?” 

“ Of the Albany” 

“Barker of the Albany! Is he the man?” cried the termagant 
Mrs. Harry, vixenishly and exultingly, plucking off her right-hand 
glove at the same time, and tearing it in two places. She broke her- 
self in gloves, at exciting junctures. 

The electioneering arrangements were all completed in the course 
of a pleasant ride, and a gay dinner after it, at which Will White- 
bait and Saunter assisted, as well as Tom Turner. Not one of the 
three exchanged a syllable the v»rhole evening with Mr. Farquhar, 
but, by way of atonement, they drank his champagne and claret 
generously. A stranger to the institutions of the country could 
have come to no other conclusion than that the British House of 
Commons was a lady’s chamber, and the Government of Fngland a 
petticoat one. Well — the election was to take place in thiee days; 
and on the following day, Mrs. Harry and Turner posted down to 
Boroughcross — Turner with a thousand pounds in his pocket, in 
crisp Bank-of-Eugland notes, the property of a quiet, biddable gen- 
tleman in the dickey, who was no other than Mr. Barker’s com- 
petitor for a seat in the legislature. 

But it was too late; Messieurs Hooke and Crooke had been too 
active. The reputation of the crotchety bachelor, backed by the 
name of Spread, was too strong for Mrs. Harry, even with the 
lord of the Treasury and a thousand pounds to boot. Some of the 
most corrupt electors, out of sheer perverseness, refused to be 
bribed. Cautionary notices to the constituency were posted through 
the town, all to no purpose. Mrs. Harry herself would have made 
a speech from the hustings, had she received the least encouragement, 
but not reciviug it, she supplied Tom Turner with a number of 
malignant anecdotes of the bachelor, most of them sheer fictions, 
wdiich that light-fingered gentleman rapidly manufactured into what 
he called a “ spicy article ” for a journal st 3 ded the “ Boroughcross 
Independent,” which published it for the consideration of fifty 
pounds. Calumny, however, proved as ineffectual as corruption. 
Barker was returned; and Mrs. Harry, with scarce a button left on 
her Imveling dress, drove hack moodily to town, having spent five 
hundi’ed pounds in futile bribery, and five pounds additional in 
French gloves. 

The “ Times ” of the morning of the 10th of February was 
fraught with matter of grave import to Barker. He happened first 
to glance at the advertisement columns, -and there among hues and 
cries after revolted poodles, and lamentations for prodigal sous and 
wives errant, he read the following, with feelings which (as penny- 
a-liners say) “ were too deep for words:” 


94 


THE BACHELOR > OF THE ALBANY, 


“ Should this meet the eye of a gentleman named Barker, whose 
brother died some time since at Bermudas, he is requested to com- 
municate with Mr. John Ramsay, No. 96 Chancery Lane, by whom 
he will be made acquainted with something in which he will prob- 
ably teel himself deeply concerned.' ' 

The countenance of the bachelor fell. The nephew in search of an 
uncle was now evidently taking active steps. Barker rapidly recalled 
all the vexatious circumstances which had signalized his two meet- 
ings with the young man, by whom, or upon whose behalf (there 
could be no doubt), the above advertisement had been inserted; he 
trembled to recollect that his Christian name was Alexander, and 
how one of the passengers, on the journey to Liverpool, had actually 
advised him to avail himself of the columns of the “ Times,” to dis- 
cover his relative ana natural guaraian and protector! Scarce had 
he regained, in some degree, his composure after this shock to his 
nerves, when his eye was again saluted in another part of the same 
great journal with his own name, repeated several times, in an article 
headed ” Election Intelligence.” There was nothing in this to sur- 
prise him; but piesently he encountered the name of Spread, which 
struck him as an odd coincidence, hut no more. However, when a 
few lines further down, he saw an allusion to the Albany, his curi- 
osity was at length excited — he read the paragragh with breathless 
haste, and, to his boundless astonishment found his own unques- 
tionable self — Peter Barker, esq., of the Albany— Peter Barkei, 
trumpeted as the friend of Arthur Spread, the great Whig mer- 
chant of Liverpool, declared duly elected a burgess to serve in par- 
liament tor the town of Boroughcross! ! 1 

Amazement engiossed him for a considerable time, to the utter 
exclusion of every other feeling. Indignation succeeded, and such 
a storm of it, that Reynolds hid himself in all manner of corners; 
and the man-mastifis at the gales of the Albany skulked and trem- 
bled, as something fiercer passed them. Barker had obviously been 
made the victim of a most unjustifiable practical joke, and he in- 
stantly accused his oldest and best friend of being at the bottom of 
it, without a tittle of evidence beyond the statemerit in the' speech of 
his proposer, Mr. Crooke, that the gentleman whom he had the 
honor to recommend to his bi oilier electors was the friend of Mr. 
Spread, of Liverpool, whose name was a guaranty for the honor and 
respectability of everybody connected with him. In the lever of the 
moment, he addressed the following short but virulent letter to 
Spread, which was the first intimation Spread received of the return 
of Barker; 

“ The Albany, Feb. 10. 

” Dear Spread, — This is an infamous conspiracy and a vile 
trick. 1 can not acquit you of participation in it. Who the d— 1 
are Crackenihorpe, Hooke, and Crooke? 1 presume the fellows are 
friends of yours, so please to inform them that 1 shall certainly 
never sit for their confounded borough. 

“ Yours, etc. 

‘‘ Peter Barker. 


“To Arthur Spread, esq., 

“ Abercromby Square, Liverpool.” 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBANY. 95 

To which rude and unwarrantable letter Spread returned the fol- 
lowins: answer: 

“35, Abercromby Square, Liverpool. 

“ My dear Barker,— I am sincerely grieved at what has taken 
place at Boroughcross, involving you so unexpectedly and dis- 
agreeably. That 1 had some intimation ol what was intended is 
true, but far from having any share in it, I was on the point of giv- 
ing you timely notice, when my attention was distracted by very 
distressing private circumstances, with which 1 shall not now 
trouble you. 1 was not aware of the fact that my wife’s brother- 
in-law was a candidate, so engrossed have 1 been by the events 1 
allude to. The use of my name on the occasion was utterly un- 
authorized, as you ought (I think) to have taken for granted. If 
there is anything I can do to extricate you from this embarrassment, 
you will find me 

“ Yours, most truly, 

“ Arthur Spread. 

“ To Peter Barker, esq., M.P., 

“The Albany, London.” 

Now, let Mr. Peter Barker’s future course be what it may, he is 
legally, and to all intents and purposes, a nreraber of the imperial 
legislature, charged with serious responsibilities, saddled with mo- 
mentous duties, liable to serious penalties, and, moreover, a kind of 
target set up by the Constitution* for tire political bores of all Eng- 
land to shoot at, besides being in a special manner the property" of 
the bores of Boroughcross. 

In the course of a very few days his breakfast-table began to be 
covered with letters, applications, petitions, suggestions, communi- 
cations of all kinds, pertinent and impertinent to his new station. 
There were a dozen applications tor civil offices from independent 
electors, and three modest requests that the bachelor would step 
down to the Morse-Guards and get cornetcies and other commis- 
sions for sons of the writers; there were two petitions, in tin cases, 
against a standinc: army; three for the instant removal of the bishops 
from the Mouse of Lords; two for the erection of maypoles in rural 
districts; and a very voluminous one from the ladies of Boroughcross, 
praying the House to prohibit the importation ol cigars, and re- 
move, at the same lime, all restraint upon the trade in Flemish lace 
and Dutch tulips. Atthesight of this multitudinous correspondence 
Barker felt bewdldered, as if he had been dreaming, and he actually 
laughed hysterically as he turned over the papers. 

As a matter of course, he would accept the Ohiltern Hundreds, 
and shake himself free from all this embarrassment, as he would 
throw oft the oppression of a nightmare. This was the simple, nat- 
ural, obvious course; but is it the uniform way of the world to take 
the simple, natural, obvious course? At all events, Mr. Barker did 
not take it, and the reason why he did not (at least the only reason 
assignable with any degree of probability) is now to be stated. Mr. 
Spread, upon receiving the hasty letter which the reader has just 
perused, lost no time to communicate to the electors of Borough- 
cross the flat refusal of his friend to avail himself of the honor they 
had done him. Mrs. Marry Farquhar and her Treasury lordling 


96 


THE BACHELOR QF THE ALBANY. 

were instauUy in the field again, and Mr. Barker, though so cele- 
brated a cynic, was too little of a moral philosopher to resist the 
temptation of revenging himself upon the pretty shrew of Norwpod, 
which he did most amply, by determining to retain his seat for one 
session at least. The “ Boroughcross Independent had been duly 
forwarded to him, containing Tom Turner’s “ spicy article,” and 
Barker would have had no difficulty in discovering Mrs. Harry’s 
smart hand in it, even it it had not been entitled “ Feler the Her- 
miV' 

Perhaps, had the secrets ot his heart been known, some degree /of 
personal vanity would have been found conspiring with vindictive- 
ness, to suggest the strange resolution to which Barker came upon 
this occasion, so utterly inconsistent with the principles and course 
ot his past life. 

Among the numerous anrioyances, great and small, to which he 
had now became exposed, in consequence of his entrance into public 
life, were the repeated allusions in the newspapers to his movements 
and intentions, what motions he was to make, what party he was 
to act with, what bills he was to introduce. Many of these teasing 
paragraphs were inserted designedly to plague him; his eccentrici- 
ties and morbid hatred of publicity being well known in the clubs 
and political circles. One day he read in the “ Morning Post:” 

“ Mr. Barker, the new member for Boroughcross, has arrived at 
his chambers in the Albany.” 

Another day he saw in the “ Globe:” 

We have" reason to believe that the question of vote by ballot 
will be brought before the House, after Easier, by the member for 
Bath, and it is said the motion will be seconded by Peter Barker, 
esq., M.P. for Boroughcross.” 

A few days later he found the following in the “ Daily News:” 

” Mr. Barker, M.P., is about to accept the high and responsible 
office ot ISteward of the Chiltern Hundreds; there will positively be 
a new election for Boroughcross.” 

It was probably to this announcement that he was indebted for 
the following letter which he received shortly after! 

“ March 15, 23^ Silver Street. 

“ Honorable Sir, — 1 trust your goodness will excuse the liberty 
1 take ot intruding on your valuable time, now the property ot your 
country; but your kindness to me on a former occasion emboldens 
me to apply to you again, now that Providence has placed you in 
the high position to which your talents justly entitle you, and to 
which, knowing your honorable ambition, 1 always predicted that, 
sooner or later, you would arrive. Finding, from the organs of 
public intelligence, that you are about to accept the lucrative and 
influential situation of the Children Hundreds (which, 1 presume, 
is an office connected with the all-important subject of national 
education), 1 am induced humbly to beg you will cast a favorable 
eye upon my poor nephew', Alexander, who now writes an excellent 
official hand (having been instructed by myself), and is otherwise 
competent to fill the rtffice of Private Secretary, or confidential 
clerk, besides being particularly fond of children, which would, of 
course, be expected in your department. 1 beg to inclose specimens 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 97 

of my boy’s chirogiaphy, with twenty-three testimonials of his 
moral character, and trusting again that you will pardon this intru- 
sion — ‘ Cum tot sustinms' — as Horace says, 

“ 1 have the honor to remain, 

“ Your grateful and obedient servant, 

“ Matthew Quill, 

“ Your old writing-master. 

“ To the Right Honorable Peter Barker, M.P., etc., etc., etc.. 

^ “ The Albany.” 

Owing to a concurrence of circumstances not unusual in the 
political world — two changes of administration in three weeks, and 
the usual Easter recess— it so happened that the spring was pretty 
far advanced before Barker took the oaths and his seat tor Borough- 
cross. It was on a Friday; and the same evening he received, to his 
considci'able sur^irise, tlie following short note, in a well-known 
manly, honest hand. 

'■ The Rosary, April 21. 

“ My dear Barker,— Here we are — pretty well settled— come 
down to us to-morrow and stay until Monday. 1 would offer y'ou 
the haunted chamber, but we have not discovered it yet. There 
will always be a tub for you here, where you can lie all day in the 
sun, snarling at the Irish church, and wTangling with Mrs. Spread 
— like Dean Swift and Lady Acheson. 

‘ ‘ Ever yours, 

“ Arthur Spread. 

“ Peter Barker, esq., M.P., The Albany, London.” 

The bachelor felt halt disposed to decline this friendly invitation; 
not that he was offended at the free allusions to his cynical character, 
but that he felt somewhat ashamed of himself in his altered, almost 
revolutionized, position, and had a little fear of encountering his old 
friend, whose perception of humor he knew to be keen, and whd 
migiit well be excused indulging in a little banter upon the rapid 
decline, if not the complete fall, of Barker’s vaunted system. But 
then, on the other hand, he knew, by ample experience, timt Spread 
w^as never the man to push the fairest jest beyond the limits of good- 
nature and good manners; and, tuither (what probably ultimately 
decided the point), he always felt himself comfortable under his 
friend’s roof, ami had found it particularly agreeable during the 
last visit. Whether that was owing to Mrs. Briscoe’s attentions, or 
to Laura Smyly’s charms, is not a question into which we are called 
upon to enter. / 

On the Saturday morning before he started for the Rosary, the 
member for Boroughcross again saw in the “ Times ” the alarming 
advertisement which has glready been extracted from the columns of 
that new^spaper. It. wuis beginning to make him seriously uneasy, ' 
and the more so. because on several occasions, as he walked the 
streets, he saw (fortunately without encountering) the identical 
young man to whom, it w'as so clear, that the advertisement re- 
ferred. The bachelor, with this fair nephew dogging his steps, felt 
like Frankenstein, pursued by the misstiapen creature of his hands; 
and, far from thinking himself '"deeply concerned'" in accepting 
4 ‘ I , 


98 


THE BACHELOll OF THE ALBANY. 


Mr. Jlamsay’s invitation, he never, in all liis life, experienced so 
little desire to visit Chancery Lane. 


CHAPTER xVn. 

Now turning from the wintery signs, the Sun 
His course exulting through the Ram had run. 

And whirling up the skies, his chariot drove 
Through Taurus and the lightsome realms of love, 

Where Venus from her orb descends in showers 
To glad the ground and paint the fields with flowers. 

The Flower and the Leaf. 

The Rosary — The Spreads at Breakfast — Their Visitors, feathered 
and unfeathered— Finches and Smylys— Laura Smyly stays at 
the Rosary — Mr. Spread escorts Adelaide back to Far Niente,. 
the Seat ot Dean Bedford — The Dean and Mrs. Bedford in 
their noontide Slumbers — Mrs. Harry Farquhar imitates Mo- 
hammed— Arrival of the Bachelor— Owlet appears in the Twi- 
light— Explains the religious Uses of Church Theatricals — 
Barker’s Hit at the Deans — More detailed Account of the Ro- 
sary, and what made it a particularly pleasant House. 

' The Rosary, to which Barker was now about to be introduced, 
and where important events were destined to take place, was exact- 
ly the place for a family like the Spreads, with ample means, hos- 
pitable habits, elegant tastes, and cheerful dispositions. The domain 
was extensive, undulating, and not overplanted; it extended to the 
river-side, and abounded with walks and terraces, shady without 
gloom, and courting the sun, without being exposed to the unkind- 
ly blasts. Embraced from north- west to north-east by rising grounds, 
and embosomed in woods, from every malignant point ot the com- 
pass it was screened completely. There w'ere two spacious gardens, 
laid out with an equal eye to productive power and picturesque 
effect. There w^ere hot-houses and green -houses, graperies and 
pineries, a dial for Philip to regulate with his sextant, and an 
apiary, under a sunny wail, to aid his researches into insect mathe- 
maiics. In fact, it would be hard to say what the Rosary had not 
—a wash-house, a tool-house, a cow-lioust, a pigeon-house, a boat- 
huuse, a brew^ house, an ice-house, and a bake-house, a diary, and 
an aviary, a fowlery, and a piggery. Then there was nothing 
naked, unsightly, or neglected in any corner of the place; not a bit 
of bare wall visible, no ragged hedges, not a fence uniepaired, no 
vegetation out of place upon gravel walks; There was no such 
soft, fresh, bright turf anywhere. 

A lawn sloped at the gentlest angle from the house to the river’s 
side, shaven with such precision that it seemed the work of the 
razor, not the scyihe, as it a coiffeur or barber of Paris had per- 
formed the mower’s duty. Immediately beneath the windows the 
smooth grass rose, and sw'elled like long sofas of green velvet, only 
interrupted by a few low steps of while marble, by which you gained 
the principal entrance, which was itself nothing but a more spacious 
window, under a porch of trellis-work, interwoven with climbing- 
plants, now beginning to flower, and evidently tended with such. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


99 


nicety that none but gay and beaiilifu] insects, the exquisites of the 
entomological kingdom— a beetle covered with diamonds, a butter- 
fly in ball-dress, or a Brummell moth— would presume to visit there. 
The place was populous with birds, now beginning to carol their 
hymn to Spring in every bush. The thrushes and blackbirds con- 
sidered the Rosary their own, and in fact they held it in joint ten- 
ancy with tlie Spreads, who were as kind protectors of birds as Mr. 
Watertou himself. It was certainly a delightful transition from 
Liverpool, and it was marvelous how soon the town mice gol into 
the ways and habits of mice who had lived all their lives in the 
country. There was something to hit everybody’s fancy. Augusta 
had the loveliest of all arbors, promising to be as rosy as Gulistan 
and odorous as Sabsea, to carry on her operations in embroidery. 
Mrs. Spread had the sweetest boudoir and most charming conaeiva- 
tory, forming a wing of the principal drawing-room. There was an 
ivied ruin, supposed to be that of a church, in one part of the 
grounds, tor the antique-minded Owlet; and Mi. Spread used to 
promise to cut down a clump of trees at a particular point, so as to 
admit a breath or two of the fragrant and salubrious north-easter, to 
regale his honorable friend, the member for Boioughcross. , 
Within everything was as near perfection as the interior of any 
countiy-house could be brought by skill and taste of the first order. 
It was the best lighled, the best warmed, and (without the slightest 
assistance from Dr. Reid) the best ventilated villa in the kingdom. 
But it was commodious without being regular; a house tor incident 
as well as comfort, for adventure as well as convivial enjoyment. 
Some houses are evidently b|iiilt for the Brims and Humdrums, 
hoifses where you must be always grave and demure, where the 
comedy of life is altogether out of the question, the rooms are so 
square and decorous, the stairs so methodical, the passages and gal- 
leries so correct and formal. There is no satisfaction in a house 
where one can not occasionally make a geographical blunder. One 
likes, now and then, to make an innocent error of a door or two in 
the navigation of a strange corridor; it is so comical, novelish. 
Don-Quixotish, and all that sort of thing, which is so very plea'^ant. 
There can be nothing duller, when you are bedward bound, than to 
be assured by some Malvolio that you “ can not possibly go wrong.'’ 
Now, you could easily go wrong in parts of the Rosary. It w’as 
not, like the mind of its proprietor, a place without nooks and 
corners in it. There were turns and returns, up and downs, ins 
and outs, crypts and turrets, fiont stairs for strangers, and back 
stairs for the household. In tact, it was no easy matter to make 
your room without being out in your reckoning once or twice, often 
with heart-breakers ahead, the Dimity Isles on the lee-bow, or some- 
times even speaking a strange craft like Owlet, or a piratical 
kitchen-maid on the larder tack. Mr. Barker, the correctest of 
men, was always stumbling on the Abigails and Mopsas. 

There was one particulaily cheerful thing about this and eveiy 
other house occupied by the Spreads: the number of smart, tidy, 
good-looking maids they had, never in one’s w'ay, or seemingly out 
of their proper places, yet forever tripping up and down, popping 
out of doors, or into them, in spruce caps, with smart ribbons, 
aprons white as snow, and faces bright as morning ought to be. 


100 THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBANY. 

They formed a most agreeable background, as it were, to the family- 
picture, and made you feel merry and pleasant in spite of yourself. 
There were Mrs. Spread’s maid, her daughters’ maid, the nursery- 
maid, laundry-maids, house maids, and chamber-maids; two Liicys, 
three Marys, an Ellen, and a Kitty; Mrs. Spread’s maid’s name was 
Harriet. Some were arrant coquettes, not a doubt of it; one was 
all eyes, one all ears, one all tongue; not one of them but had some 
fault of her own, as a set-off to her pretty face or her plump figure. 
Kot a maid of them all was perfect! 

On the morning when Barker was expected down, the Rosary 
looked particularly beautiful. It was April (almost May); and oc- 
casionally, even in England, April is a month which does not alto- 
gether belie the character which poets are unanimous in giving it. 
At all events, it was a sunny and a genial day. The Spreads had 
breakfast in the hall above described, with the glass-door thrown 
wide open, so as to allow a couple of inquisitive finches to hop in 
and out, as it were to see whether the new-comers were likely to be 
agreeable neighbors. However, just as the repast was over, a still 
more interesting, and wholly unexpected pair of visitors bounded 
in — two charming girls, in green silk dresses, with pretty pink bon- 
nets, and the family party jumped up with one accord to greet the 
radiant and ever- welcome iSraylys. They were on a visit at Far 
IMiente, a villa at some little distance, occupied, as has been men- 
tioned before, by Dean Bedford, the former proprietor of the Ro- 
sary. What chatting and gossiping there was that lovely morning 
upon the natural couches of green velvet, swelling and sloping 
down to the lawn. It may well be supposed that the conversation 
was not all mirthful. The Sraylys were eager for intelligence about 
Grace Medlicott, and Mrs. Spread had none to give them. They 
spoke of that hapless and interesting giil for a long time, recalling 
tfie minutest particulars of their too brief acquaintance with her,, 
speculating upon her fate, and inveighing against the abominable 
conduct of the heartless Narrowsmiths. At length, by mulual con- 
sent, the subject was dropped, as a painful one, which had been 
sufficiently dwell on, the discussion of it being calculated to lead to 
no useful result, Adelaide was the first to notice the absence of 
Philip; but she perceived, directly she mentioned his name, that 
there was something mysterious and embarrassing connected with 
it, which made her instantly change the subject, by remarking some 
of the beauties of the spot. 

“Now, girls,” said Mrs. Spread, “one of you must do me a 
great favor. 1 am not so unreasonable as to want to deprive the 
good dean of you both at once; but (as there is no company at Far 
Niente) will one of you stay with us until Monday, and help us to- 
get through a very dull party this evening, and to amuse poor Mr. 
Barker to-morrow?” 

At the mention of the bachelor, whose singular adventures they 
were no strangers to, the Smyly girls laughed until the Spreads 
thought they would never stop laughing. Then Adelaide wanted 
Laura to remain, and Laura wanted Adelaide, and they had a good- 
humored battle about it, in the course of which Adelaide made one 
or two little hits, which threw Laura into slight confusion, and 
deepened the roses of her cheek a shade or two— at least Mrs. Spread 


THE BACHELOR* OP THE ALBANY. 


101 


thought so, and- she had a shrewd eye for phenomena of this kind. 
The end, however, was, that Laura remained at the Eosary, and 
Mr. Spread, after luncheon, escorted Adelaide back to Far Niente, 
where, indeed, he was almost a daily visitor, so much had Dean 
Bedford, the comeliest' and courtliest dignitary of the most “gen- 
tlemanlike” church in Christendom, gained upon his affections 
since he became a settler upon the banks of the Thames. How- 
ever, upon this occasion, Mr. Spread had not the pleasure of 
conversing with his very reverend friend and neighbor, for it 
was, unfortunately, just the hour when it was his innocent 
and cinonical custom to doze in his great easy-chair, his venerable 
brows covered with Mrs. Bedford’s cambric handkerchief to protect 
them from the sun and the flies. Adelaide, as she and Mr. Spread 
drew near the cottage (tor so it was called although a more com- 
fortable house did not exist in the country), knew, by the disposi- 
tion of the blinds and curtains that her uncle was enjoying his 
quotidian nap, and taking the retired merchant to a particular 
window, through which a peep was to be had into the interior, she 
pointed to a spectacle which Spread alwa 3 ^s spoke of afterward as 
the rnost exquisite picture of still life he had ever seen. The portly 
divine, immersed in a sea of cushions, was taking his noonday nap, 
his hands folded on his apron, the very type of prosperity in repose; 
while, on a full-swelling sofa near him, good Mrs. Bedford, a 
comely woman of considerable tunnage, habited in rich purple silk, 
sjmipatheticaily slumbered. She seemed to have struggled against 
the drowsy influences; her spectacles lay on her ample lap, as if 
they had just tumbled from her nose, her massive right arm was 
dropping to her side, and her fair, fat, dimpled hand was evidently 
on the point of losing its hold of a volume of Madame de Sevigne’s 
letters, which the excellent lady nodded through once a j’-ear. The 
room was voluptuously and soporilerously furnished: it was the 
dean’s library, where many a theologian of celebrity continued to 
sleep in morocco leather. The artificial twilight which Mrs. Bed- 
ford had made, before she sat down to doze over her “ one book,”’ 
was perfection — I he sort of sunny shade, with a twinkle in it, which 
affects the eyelids so very drowsily in silent places. The mind of 
Mr. Spread traveled back to the galleries of Holland, and thought 
of fat kine at the j^assage of a brook among the alders, the study of 
a Cuyp, or the theme of a Potter. 

“ 1 must take Barker to see this,” whispered Spread to his fait* 
cicerone, with a face that would have been worth a thousand pounds 
at tne Haymarket. 

“ Do,” said Adelaide, in the same subdued tone. “ Laura has 
got such a capital name for Far Niente— the Cottage of Indolence.'’ 

“ Capital — that will delight Barker; by the b 5 '-e, let me tell you. 
Miss Adelaide, that your sister is the only woman whose conversa- 
tion 1 ever knew barker really enjoy. Mrs. Spread says so, too. 
What does Laura think of him?” 

“ Oh, 1 don’t know that she thinks of him at all; at least she says 
nothing to me, if she does; we joke about him now and then, that’s 
all.” 

They now glided noiselessly from the library window : Spread 


102 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

"bade adieu in humorous dumb-show, and Miss Smyly crept into the 
house ith similar comic action. 

Mrs. Spread received, durint; her husband’s absence, an alarming 
note from Mrs. Harry Farqtihar, from which it appeared Mrs. 
Harry was so bent upon being near her sister, that she had taken a 
small cottage on the very edge of the river, at about a quarter of a 
mile from the Rosary, and had already removed her children to it, 
in charge of a new governess, whom she had recently engaged for 
them. 

“ Since the mountain won’t come to Mohammed,” said Mis. H., 
” Mohammed must only go to the meuntaiu.” 

The necessity for such a movement was by no means obvious to 
the Spreads, and it annoyed Mr, Spread particularly, as he foresaw 
it would have the effect of discouraging Barker’s visits to the 
Rosary. While he was deploring this result of his termagant sis- 
ter-in-law’s pertinacity, the bachelor arrived; he was soon h)llowed 
by Sir Blundell and Lady Trumbull, neighbors of the Spreads at 
Oxford House; Mr, Periwinkle, the celebrated conchologist ; Mr. 
Spunner, an eminent equity lawyer, and his wife: and, lastly, by 
Mr. Spread’s old friend Upton, member for Tarlton, who brought 
bis son with him, a daring, precocious boy of twelve or thirteen, 
that never left any house he visited without leaving a lasting repu- 
tation behind him by playing some laughable trick, or pei forming 
some mischievous exploit. 

Upton, the father, deserves to be briefly sketched. He was a 
man of business, an able man of business, but a mere man of busi- 
ness. Hie understanding was a chamber with but one window, 
looking to business. There were no side-lights, no scholarship, no 
science, no wit, no taste. 

The minds of scholars are libraries; those of antiquaries, lumber- 
rooms; those of sportsmen, kennels; those of epicures, larders and 
cellars; but the mind of Upton was an office. It had been an attor- 
ney’s ottice formerly; it was a pailiamenlary office now. His 
knowledge was of Hansard, his reading of blue-books, his memory 
of votes and standing orders. It was a pi gqcn- holed, alphabeted 
mind, as full of bills and reports as the scrutoire of the Abbe de 
Sieye? was of constitutions. The common associations of Upton’s 
ideas were of red tape, the finer ones of green ribbon. 

Barker was soon tolerably at his ease. His altered position was 
treated as one of the ordinary vicissitudes of life, and no disposition 
was evinced by any one to banter liiin upon a change so broadly at 
variance with his boasted system of indtpendeuce and irresponsir 
bility. It was, of course, impossible to avoid politics, for both 
Upton and Trumbull w’ere members of parliament, and Mrs. Martin 
was feverishly anxious about the rights of women, and in hopes of 
getting the bachelor to bring in a bill to declare and protect them. 
Indeed, the bachelor was not a little worried at dinner, between 
Mrs. Martin on her hobby, and Owlet on his ass. Owlet arrived in 
the twilight, just as dirfber was announced. 

Now, it was seldom that a dull dinner-party assembled round Mr. 
Spread s table, and, before they sat down, he took Barker aside and 
apologized for it. Trumbull, Periwinkle, Upton, and Owlet (to 
say nothing of the equity law^^er), would have required at least a 


THE BACHELOli OF THE ALBAHT. 


10 ^ 


score of Spreads and Smylys to counteract tbeili. The quadruple 
alliance ot a man ot crops, a man of cockles, a man of blue-books, 
and a man of the dark ages— Laura compared it to two pair of wet 
blankets, Mr. Spread to tour acres of poppy, and Barker to four tons- 
of lead. Trumbull would talk of nothing" but the potato-rot; Peri- 
winkle could talk of nothing but testacea and Crustacea; the mem- 
ber for Tarlton was forever dragging in, head and shoulders, his 
report upon Metropolitan Sewerage; and Owlet was still discours- 
ing, in deep, monotonous voice, of nothing but his hermitages and 
his miracle-plays. In fact, the only scrap of interesting conversa- 
tion that Barker heard during dinner was upon the latter subject, 
between the canon of Salisbury and Laura Smyly. 

“ Can you really be serious, Mr. Owlet, in desiring to see our 
venerable cathedrals profaned by dramatic performances?" 

“Not profaned. The acting of a miracle-play, as they were 
acted in the great days of the Catholic Church, would not profane 
our Cathedrals, while it would purify and exalt the drama." 

“ But of what use could it be, Mr. Owlet?" 

“ Df the same use as in the olden time— afford a pious amuse- 
ment, and diffuse a knowledge of the Scriptures." 

“But surely the Bible Societies accomplish the latter object, da 
they not?" 

“ Not half so well as the ecclesiastical drama would. 1 am now 
in correspondence with the Bible Societies on the subject. 1 want 
them to devote a portion of their funds to the encouragement of 
churcti theatricals." , 

“ In what part of the cathedrals," inquired Lady Trumbull, “ was 
it the practice to have the miracle-plays acted?" 

“ In the nave," replied the Canon of Salisbury. 

Mr. Periwinkle, who knew nothing beyond his Crustacea, inquired 
what part of a cathedral that was, and Owlet was only too happy to 
enlighten his ignorance. 

"1 had always been of opinion until now," said Barker, “that 
the (k)nave of a cathedral meant tlie— dean!" 

Tlie canon made no defense for the deans, having been mortified 
by the conduct of those dignitaries, whom he had failed to imbue 
with a taste for theatricals. But Spread laughed, and said he would 
introduce Barker to-morrow to a dean, of whom nobody’’ ever said, 
or could possibly say, a hard word. 

“ The dean who is so spiritual as to believe in ghosts," said Bark- 
er. “ Well, Spread, you are indebted to his superstition for a tol- 
erably comlortable dining-room, at all events." 

The rest of the evening passed no less heavily. Barker fell into 
one of his silent fits; the room had been darkened to accommodate 
Owlet, whose eyes wxTe dim with his monastic researches; Sir 
Blundell Trumbull was fast asleep; and, as to Mark Upton, he was 
boring the ladies to the very death, with abstracts of his bills and 
quotations from his parliamentary reports, particularly that upon 
the engaging subject of Metropolitan Sewerage. 

There was no withstanding so many slumberous influences. What 
with those who talked, tliose who did not talk, and the dim relig- 
ious light of the drawing-room, the evening became as drowsy, 
toward ten o’clock, as it could have been at Far Niente itself. 


104 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

Laiira'Smyly was relating to Lady Trumbull the singular incident 
to which the Spreads were indebted for the discovery of the Rosary, 
and Mr. Spread wa^ trying to rouse himself to converse with Peri- 
winkle on shells, and with Spiinner uy)on chancery costs, when a 
shrill and piercing scream was heard from a remote pait of the villa, 
and the whole party, in an instant, became wide awake. Another 
and another cry succeeded ; the voices were evidently those of the 
Kittys and Marias. Mrs. Spread distinctly recognized the voice of 
her own woman, Harriet, having often heard her shriek at mice and 
spiders. The first thoiight that occurred to every one was fire. Mi. 
Spread ran to the door that communicated with the dining-parlor. 
All in that quarter was dark and quiet. Mr. Spunner ran to a door 
in another corner, which communicated, by a corridor^ with the 
wing of the Rosary where the guests were usually lodged. The 
oorridor was lighted, and he ran to the further end of it, followed, 
at a distance, by Upton, who snatched up an expiring lamp; and 
by Lady Trumbull, Mis. Martin, and Augusta, carrying candles. 
The screaming was now very distinct, and mingled with other 
sounds still stranger and more alarmiug. Spunner forced open the 
door at the further end of the passage, and, directly he did so, some- 
thing monstrous rushed tow^ard . him, something evidently not 
human, of a dark gray color, and with a noise quite hideous enough 
to justify the ternm ot the maids. Mrs. Martin and Lady Trum- 
bull no sooner saw what was careering toward them than they 
screamed also, dropped the lights from their hands, and retreated to 
the drawing-room; Mr, Upton tried to do the same, but he was 
thrown down, the lamp shattered to pieces, and the gray specter, 
goblin, or whatever it was, trotted over him. Augusta Spread es- 
caped the same fate by getting behind the door just in the nick of 
time. The apparition pursued the party into the drawing-room, 
which was now nearly as dark as a vault. Mr. Spread’s first im- 
pression was, that his little daughter Catherine’s Shetland pony had 
escaped front the stables. The Reverend Mr. Owlet (vvho, though 
constitutionally a craven, felt a demonological satisfaction in think- 
ing that the Rosary was indeed haunted) never stirred from his seat 
from the beginning of the commotion, and sat now with his small 
eyes riveted upon the mysterious object, his elbows planted on those 
of his chair, his hands crossed on his breast— a comical figure of 
curiosity and cowardice, had there been any one present to sketch 
it. The mysterious object, however, made toward him instantly, 
jumped on his lap, struck one ot its fore-feet upon each of his knees, 
thrust its nose within an inch of his, shook an enormous pair of 
cars, and brayed in his face. As there were no asses on the farm, 
the Spreads were totally at a loss to conceive how such a brute 
could have found its way into the house^ Still the animal main- 
tained its place, wi^h its hoofs on the minor-canon’s lap, braying at 
him pointedly. Owlet shrunk as tar back in the chair as he could, 
but the donkey only thrust his nose the closer. The other gentle- 
men now approached to pull the animal away by the tail, and ex- 
tricate the poor canon from his unpleasant situation. The donkey 
kicked Barker, and Barker was seizing the poker to retaliate, when 
Owlet gasped out, in his hollow, sepulchral tones — 

“ It is— it must be Lord John Yore!” 


THE BACHELOR OF JHE ALBANY. 105 

“ Lord Jolin Yore!” exclaimed everybody present, more amazed 
at the name of the player than they had previously been at his per- 
formance. Before, however, it was possible to make any^ verifica- 
tion of Owlet’s conjecture, the donkey wheeled round and cantered 
out of the room by the way it came, putting the shrieking Abigails 
and Mopsas again to flight, until it disappeared by a door beyond 
the passage which led to the bed-chambers. 

It was soon ascertained, however, that the actor in this improm])ta 
representation of a miracle play was not the noble lord whom Owlet 
naturally concluded him to be. The fact was, that the reverend 
gentleman had carelessly left his theatrical properties in an open 
trunk in his room, where they had been discovered by^ Lucy, the 
nursery-maid, who was a Paul Pry in petticoats. Lucy could not 
resist the temptation of exhibiting such diverting articles to Theo- 
dore, who in his turn revealed to them Master Freddy Upton, by 
whom the idea of playing the ass’s part “ for one night only,” was 
not only conceived, but executed. 

Trivial as this incident may appear, the ridicule of it (for Barker 
and Upton related it wherever they went), had the effect of putting 
down the attempts of the tractarian divines and the Young England 
men to revive the ecclesiastical diama. Vou no longer hear a sylla* 
ble breathed upon the subject, and mgny will stoutly- deny — with 
what truth the reader is qualified to judge— that such a scheme was 
ever on foot. 

The only sufferer by the exposure was Upton, who hurt his shin 
by his fall, and had his clothes drenched in the oil of the lamp 
which he was carrying; but Barker consoled him by telling him 
that his son would have the glory of laughing down church theatric- 
als; and Upton solaced himself, before he went to bed, with a tew 
pages of his own report upon Metropolitan Sewerage. 

The ladies sat for a while in a circular group upon an ottoman, 
chatting, laughing, and composing their nerves before they retired 
for the night. Somebody inquired for the conchologist, who was 
missing. It was presumed that he had gone to bed. Presently a 
subdued sneeze, or a stifled groan, was heard; the ladies listened, 
and Mrs. Spunner and Lady Trumbull began seriously to think that 
something was. not quite right with the Rosary. The same noise 
recurred in a few moments. Mrs. Martin jumped up, protested that 
there was somebody under the ottoman; and, being a prompt, intrep- 
id woman, pulled up the chiniz without a moment’s hesitation, and 
discovered the heart of Mr. Periwinkle, who had sought an asylum 
there during the reign of terror. The ladies, by sitting dowri in a 
circle, had prevented his escape; and he would liave remained in 
durance until the room was deserted, only that a hair had tickled 
his nose, and forced him to make the noise, which revealed at once 
his retreat and his poltroonery. 


106 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


CHAPTER XVllI 

The doors, that knew no shrill, alarming bell, 

No cursed knocker ply’d by villain’s hand, 

Self-open’d into halls, where who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 

The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? 

Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 

And couches stretch’d around in seemly band. 

And endless pillows rise to prop the head. 

So that each spacious room was one full, swelling bed. 

The Castle of Indolence. 

Hr. Barker’s Parliamentary Portrait— Doctor Bedford’s Preferments 
in the Church— The Villa of Far N lente— Barker and Spread 
visit the Dean — Curious Instance of bad Memory — M hat be- 
came oi Barker’s Motion for a Reform of the Irish Church, 
and what became of the Ballot Question. 

Mr. Barker’s parliamentary career was in several respects suf- 
ficiently disreputable. He had always been a perverse politician, 
and, as such politicians invariably do, plumed himself on not being 
a party man, He was a Whig when the Tories were in power, but 
very much disposed to turn Tory when the Whigs returned to office. 
He had too sharp an eye tor abuses of all sorts, not to be a reformer; 
but then he would reform no abuses, except at his own time, which 
was just when the public mind was least prepared, or in his own 
way, which was almost the most impracticable mode imaginable. 
When parliamentary reform was the question, Barker would hear 
of nothing but free trade; when the country was thinking of noth- 
ing but free trade, he talked of nothing but vote by ballot; and when 
the potato failed in Ireland, and all the intelligence and humanity 
of the eihpire was concentrated upon devising means of averting the 
horrors of famine. Barker took up the church question furiously, 
and would have wheeled the ministry out for not reviving the ap- 
propriation clause. When he came into the House he had ample 
opportunities of being as crotchety in practice as he had previously 
been in theory. He seldom seconded a motion, without strongly 
reprobating the grounds stated by the mover; and never supported 
a bill without either attacking the motives of those who introduced 
it, or giving them fair warning that he meant to strike its main pro- 
visions out in committee. He was always making cross remarks 
from the cross benches, or crossing the House to say something 
cross, to cross somebody. He commonly commenced a speech by 
saying, “ I rise, sir, to make an unpleasant observation;” or, look- 
ing vinegar at the Treasiiiy benches, “ 1 am about to ask the noble 
lord, or right honorable gentleman, a question which 1 know will 
be excessively disagreeable.” Then there was no such moral lect- 
urer as he was; he was always schooling the House, and laying 
down severer principles of ethics for their guidance than he found it 
convenient to act on himself. By his own account, he was ihe only 
logician and the only moralist in the House; indeed, so satisfied 
was he with the accuracy and justice of ail his own view's, that he 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 107 

telt himself «varranted to place all who dissented from him in the 
flattering dilemma of knave or fool; he was loo polite not to give 
them their clioice of the horns. Then, when any member adopted 
the 1 nguage ot Billingsgate, Barker was so sore otf ended that he 
would rise and correct him in tlie vocabulary of Wapping. When 
a member wmis assailed by a public journal, and wanted to have the 
editor or the printer up tor a breach of privilege, it afforded the 
bachelor an occasion, which he always seized, for provimr his zeal 
for freedom of discussion; but, on the other hand, he was aBo so 
jealous of the dignity ot the House, that, when he was attacked 
himself by the newspapers, he manfully asserted the privileges of 
parliament, besides feeling strongly that the licentiousness of the 
press is prejudicial to its liberty in the last degree, ^io man discov- 
ered more mare’s-nests; no man threatened ministers so frequently 
with impeachment, moved ottener that the House be counted, di- 
vided it oftener upon frivolous points, or called tor hall so many 
useless and troublesome returns. Upon one occasion, being annoyed 
by an unmeaning quotation from Virgil, he moved for a return ot 
the number of lines ot Virgil quoted by members ot the House from 
the year 1688 to the present day, specifying the lines in each case, 
the name of the member who used them, and the particular poem 
from which each quotation was taken, whether “ .^Eneid,” “ Geor- 
gic,” or “ Bucolic.” The result was, of course, very nearly a com- 
plete edition ot the Mantuan bard, in the form ot a blue-book. 
Barker was hardly ever in majorities, and very seldom ev’^tn in mi- 
norities of more than four or five. More than once he went out 
alone into the lobby; but for a considerable time he and Mr. Buck- 
ram, M P. for Wells, pulled wonderfully together, being two of the 
crookedesf and crabbedest men in the kingdom. Among other 
questions which they agreed to introduce together, at the most un- 
seasonable juncture imaginable, was that of vote by ballot. As to 
talking to either of them of expediency, or the danger ot perma- 
nently tiamaging the cause by an untimely agitation of it, you might 
as well have discoursed with a Jew about pork, or a Pennsylvanian 
on probity. 

Another question to which Barker devoted himself as inoppor- 
tunely as he well could, was that of the Irish church. Spread cor- 
dially agreed with him, that no establishment in the empire was so- 
repugnant to every sound principle, both of religion and of politics, 
but pressed him to consider that its reform was neither demanded 
by the people of Ireland themselves, nor agreeable to the present 
temper of the people of England. But the member for Borough- 
cross was impracticable. The 2d ot May was fixed for the ballot 
question, when Barker was to second the motion of Mr. Buckram, 
and on the tenth of the same moath the bachelor was to move for 
leave to bring in a bill (not even Buckram having yet volunteered to 
stand sponsor to it) to retrench the temporalities of the church in 
Ireland, and apply its surplug w’ealth to general secular uses. 

They were chatting on the subject as they walked over the next 
day to bar IMiente, to pay Dean Bedford a visit, or, at least, get a 
peep at him through the casement, enjoying his canonical repose. 

The slumbers of this excellent dignitary were neither the symp 
tom of any bodily ailment, nor a luxury enjoyed at the expense ot 


108 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. . 


duty. He was Dean of tlie Cathedral Church of St. Ormond, in the 
diocese of Kilfenora, of which his father had been bishop in his 
time. Tlie Deanery was reputed one of the best in Ireland; -first, 
because it produced its incumbent a clear thousand a year; and, 
secondly, because the dean had a treasurer, a chancellor, three preb- 
endaries, five canons, and three vicars-choral to aid and assist him 
<which they did most eflficiently) in doing what was called “ cathe- 
dral duty,’’ the closest approximation to doing nothing attainable 
at the present day, unless the Puseyites and Lord John Manners 
shall succeed in reviving monastic institutions. The dean, however, 
had other preferments; a prebend in one diocese, a chancellorship in 
another, two rectories in other sees, with cure of souls in contem- 
plation of law, and in addition to these numerous good things, he 
was vicar-general of the diocese of Kilfenora aforesaid, a spiritual 
territory where, we may mention, in passing, that a Protestant of 
the esfiiblished church was as rare a phenomenon as a unicorn or a 
phenix. Even the net income derivable from all these sources was 
so gross, that the dean soon discovered it to be more conducive to his 
ease to enjoy it on the banks of the Thames, than on those of the 
Shannon, or even the Lifi^ey. A pastoral staff should certainly be a 
tolerably long one to reach from Richmond to St. Ormond, but the 
dean had no occasion for a pastoral staff at all; for where he had a 
few straggling sheep to feed, the shepherd of a neighboring parish 
tended them for a consideratiors so trilling as to show clearly enough 
that there is nothing so cheap as the actual cure of souls, when the 
charges are left to be settled and defrayed by the ecclesiastical au- 
thorities themselves. Dr. Bedford was a clergyman of the old 
school; he had entered the church at a period when public opinion 
was not so influential and exacting as it is at the present day; ere 
the lives of deans, and even bishops, were discussed in newspapers, 
and the vulgar doctrine of the wages of labor began to be applied 
to the relations existing between the priesthood and the people. But 
he was by no means one of the worst specimens of Irish pluralists. 
He was neither proud nor rapacious; he was no reviler of the Cath 
olic clergy while he enjoyed the revenues which had once been 
theirs; he took legal proceedings to enforce his pecuniary claims as 
sparingly as possible, and never took violent steps at all: he was not 
only too benevolent, but too indolent to play the wolf in his own 
fold. In a word. Dean Bedford had too much, and he was— con- 
tent. 

When he first imparadised himself at Richmond, he measured not 
more than a yard and a half in the girth, not by any means an un- 
reasonable circumference for an ecclesiastic of his rank and fortune; 
but a life of ease and luxury, passed between the couch and the 
table, rapidly increased his bulk; at the end of the third year his 
tailor raised his prices; at the close of the fourth the buxom, digni- 
tary saw his knees for the last time; and ere a fifth had expired, it 
was a favorite frolic of his wife's merry nieces (the Smyly girls) to 
span him with their united arms, and ^t was not without consider, 
able effort— at least, so they pretended— that the tips of their fingers 
were brought into contact. 

Far Niente may be described in one word. It was all a bedroom! 
The genius that furnished it must have been the very genius of re- 


' THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. 109 

pose. You could not move in any part of it at a quicker pace than 
a lounge; you were tempted to rest yourself every ten steps you 
took; there never was house or cottage so voluptuously fitted up* for 
indolent enjoyments of all kinds, vlt was so well cushioned and 
pillowed, rugged and carpeted, sofaed and bedded, that there was 
not a nook or corner, not to say in drawing-rooms and bedrooms, 
■but in halls, vestibules and corridors, where you did not feel that it 
would be delicious to throw yourself for a siesta; down chairs were 
■everywhere at hand to catch you in their fat arms; couches of re- 
sistless embonpoint, Dudus of couches, provoked you in all direc- 
tions; but indeed you would have been quite content to fling your- 
self down on the Axminster at your chamber door. 

If a bell was ever heard, it sounded as it it were muffled, or tinkled 
like the small silver bells at a private mass in a cardinal’s closet. 
There was not a clock in the bouse except the chronometer in the 
kitchen; and the voiceor thefoot of a servant was never heard from 
Christmas to Easter, and from Easter back to Christmas. Indeed, 
as to the sound of footsteps, the perfect carpeting of the villa, com- 
bined with the solidity of the floors, would have made the steps of 
giants inaudible. 

There was but one point on which Doctor Bedford and his wife 
ever differed— a fortunate circumstance in the matrimonial state. 
This was about the irregularities ot Mother Church. Mrs. Bedford 
would never admit that the old lady had any, while her candid 
husband invariably took the Whig side of the question, and, with a 
jovial frankness that was charmirTg, acknowledged himself to be an 
epitome, and by no means a small one, ot the great flaws and unde- 
niable abuses of the Irish ecclesiastical system. To hear Mrs. Bed 
lord indignantly reading some speecii in parliament, or extract from 
a pamphlet, where the case of the Deanery of Ormond was detailed 
to illustrate wtiat the orator or pamphleteer would probably call 
“ the colossal vices ” of the Church Establishment, and to listen to 
tiie dean’s commentary upon each statement— to see how benig- 
nantly he listened to the invectives ot which he was the object, and 
how he laughed, and shook his fat sides, in his cozy chair, at what 
he considered a fair hit at his pluralities, or a humorous caricature 
of his person, was better than most scenes in modern comedy. 

Spread and Barker were fortunate enough to chtch Doctor Bed- 
ford just a few moments before he sequestered himself in his library 
lor his nap. They made, therefore, but a short visit; indeed, Mrs. 
Bedford received Mr. Baiker very coldly, being aware of his hostile 
intentions toward the established church. But the dean’s warmth 
and bonhomie made up for his wife’s frigid behavior. 

*' Is there any Irish news, Mr. Barker? 1 hear seldom from Ire- 
land now.” 

‘‘None, doctor; at least, nothing Very new. There has been a 
fatal collision between the people and the police at Kilpatrick, in 
one ot the southern counties.” 

‘‘ Where is Kilpatrick, Lizzy?” said the dean to his wife. 

Adelaide Srayly smiled. 

‘‘ Why, uncle dear, you ought to know, 1 think; it is one of your 
own parishes.” 

‘‘ Ho, ho, ho,” laughed the dean, heartily—” 1 don’t think 1 waa 


110 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

ever there; 1 don't recollect anylhinj? about Kilpatrick. One ot my 
own livings, is it?— ho, ho — very likely— 1 dare say Miss Smyly's 
right.” 

The dean was much too courteous to allude to Barker’s intended 
motion in parliament, but Mrs. Bedford would probably not have 
exercised the same selt-command, had not Spread judiciously 
abridged the visit, and taken leave; not, however, helore the kind 
dignitary made Barker promise k) meet the Spreads at dinner, at 
Far IS ieute, upon an early day. 

‘‘ That’s perfect, Barker,” said hisiriend, as they sauntered back 
through the meadows. 

” Apoplectic. 1 fear,” said the bachelor. 

” The churchman, or the church?” said Spread. 

‘‘ Both,” replied Barker; ‘‘ bleeding would do neither any harm 
—in the temporal artery.” 

“ There is certainly room for retrenchment,” said Spread; ‘‘ but 
1 still think that the present is not the time for agitating the question ’ 

” 'What 1 have seen,” said Barker, ‘‘ does not in the least alter 
my views upon that point; but 1 own it has shaken my opinion on 
another head. 1 doubt if my motion goes the proper length.” 

It ended in Barker leiting his motion for retrenchment drop. An 
other member snapped it up, and Barker gave it his most strenuous 
opposition, on the ground that, when an institution is objectionable 
in principle, it ought either to be utterly abolished or maintained in 
all its vicious perfection; there was, there could be, and there should 
be, no middle course. * 

“Join me,” said the reformer, ” in doing away with deformities ' 

” They are the beauties of the system,” cried Barker. 

” Let me use the pruning -hook,” urged the other. 

*‘ The ax, or nothing,” rejoined the member for Boroughcross 

The ballot question met a difterent fate. Mr. Barker and Mr 
Buckram assembled at the Crown and Anchor on the morning of 
the day appoirited for the motion, to settle matters in detail, and 
make their arrangements preliminary to the grand debate. The 
meeting lasted for some time. Upon the main points they were 
agreed, and all went harmoniously enough, until they came to dis- 
cuss what wood was the best for ballot boxes. Buckram said oak, 
because it was British; Barker was for cedar, because it was anti- 
septic. Buckram could see no sense in cedar, and Barker thought 
oak the height of absurdity. ^Neither would give up his crotchet, 
and at length they split upon the wood. The ballot party broke up 
into two furious factions; each called a cab, and went home in it 
and the question of secret suffrage received a blow which it did no": 
recover for three sessions. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY 


111 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Negue Virgo est usquam, neque ego, qoi e conspectu illam amisi meo. 

Ubi quaeram, ubi investigem, quem percuncter, quam insistam viam? 

Terence. 

IVe lost the ladv, and in losing her 

Have lost myself. Where sh^ I seek her now? 

Of whom inquire? I know not where to turn. 

Hetrospective — Pbiiipand Grace — A dangerous Crisis— A bad Cook 
proves a good Woman — Escape ot the Miser’s Niece — Grace is 
pursued by Philip to London, and from thence to Germany— 
Overtakes unfortunate Miss Medlicott at Baden-Baden — What 
she was doing when he found her. 

The day of the dinner at Far Niente was big with important inci- 
'dent. In the morning of that day Philip Spread rejoined his family, 
looking worn, faiigued, and dejected. His pursuit had been as 
fruitless as his love had been imprudent. His conduct had occa- 
sioned a great deal of uneasiness to his family, and would have dis- 
tressed them a great deal more had their conhdence in Miss Medli- 
cott ’s firmness of character, high principles, and superiority to every 
selfish consideration, been less than it was. They only did the 
fugitive girl justice. The circumstances attending her flight from 
her uncle s house, and the fruitless chase ot her lover, are now to 
be briefly related. Philip had not only revealed to Grace the passion 
with which she had inspired him, but had been so rash and so im- 
petuous as to make her a proposition of marriage. Perhaps he 
would not have proceeded so violently had her situation been difter- 
ent; but his anxiety to rescue her from her heartless relatives led 
him to outstep the bounds of prudence, and of filial duly also. Grace, 
upon her part, though grateful for his concern, and not indisposed 
to return his love, was too high-minded to involve him in a connec- 
tion which she had so much reason to think could not but be highly 
objectionable in the eyes ot his family. He urged his suit with 
ardor, but without shaking her resolution; still he' persevered, took 
every opportunity ot meeting her,. pressed ner with every argument 
he could use, with all his rhetoric when they met, and with letters 
when he could not otherwise address her: bat nothing could over- 
come her determination; and the only result of a suit so fervent, 
which it was impossible for her to grant, was to increase her embar- 
rassments, and suggest the idea of extricating herself from them by 
flight from Liverpool. This bold and perilous step, however, she 
did not resolve upon taking, until, one night, after experiencing 
particularly ungentle usage from Mrs. Narrowsmith, who, destitute 
ot all motherly feelings, had the novercal instincts in perfection, 
Grace had to lock herself up in her room, and otherwise fortify the 
door, to save herself from personal violence; and even these meas- 
ures of defense would not have been sufficient had not Mrs. Doro- 
thea Potts, although not much of a cook, been something of a 
woman, and induced or obliged her barbarous mistress to abandon, 


112 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


lor that time, her step-motherlj' designs. No sooner was the dreary- 
house silent that night than Grace noiselessly removed the furniture 
with which she had barricaded her bedroom door, unlocked it with 
the same care, and crept to the neighboring attic occupied by Mis. 
Potts. Dorothea was asleep, and not very easily awakened. When 
at length she awoke, Grace rapidly communicated her resolution to 
fly, and make her way to London by the express train at daybreak. 
In London she would easily obtain a livelihood as a teacher of music, 
or, at the worst, she would again have recourse to the good clergy- 
man who had received her after the shipwreck^ and throw herself, ' 
for a time, upon his protection. 

yhe thought for a moment of the Spreads; but the unfortunatie 
attachment of Philip was only an additional reason for adhering to 
the former plan. Mrs. Potts acted well; she proffered her aid with- 
wonderful alacrity tor a cook disturbed in her slumbers, and, with 
the aid of a lucifer-box, lighted a, candle, and proceeded to assist 
Grace iii the few preparations she had Lo make for her dangerous- 
expedition. Not until that moment did it occur to poor Miss Med- 
Jicott that she w'as totally unprovided with money! flere again Mrs 
Potts behaved in a manner which no cook in a royal kitchen, which 
not Alexis Soyer himself, could have easily surpassed. She had 
hoarded the sum of seventeen pounds, seventeen shillings, and three 
pence half penny, in the treasury of a worsted stocking; most of it 
was her honest earning, part of it the fruit, perhaps, of some little 
peculation in kkchen-siuff. Ten pounds of this treasure she insisted 
upon advancing to Grace, who reluctantly and gratefully received 
it, shedding a tear upon the coarse hand so ready to do a delicate 
service. They crept down-stairs together It w’as now approach- 
ing five D’clock. In the hall another difficulty encountered them, 
which it was surprising had not been anticipated, at least by 
Dorothea. The street-door was locked^ and the key in the miser’s, 
bedroom, according to the custom of ths house. It was impossible 
to escape with safety by any of the windows, Mrs. Potts, however, 
was not without a shift in this emergency. Directing Grace to 
remain perfectly quiet, she ascended again, and knocked at Mr. 
Narrowsmilh’s door. A. venomous dog, between a terrier and a 
mastiff, which always -partook the miser’s bed, started up and barked ? 
furiously. The miser himself was at the door in an instant. 
Dorothea informed him that she'suspecled that there w^ere thieves 
upon the roof, pilfering the lead, and desired him to light his candle. 
The light, as soon as it w-as kindled, revealed the keys of the house 
upon a chair beside the bed, and the moment her master came forth, 
followed by his dog, and went upstairs to protect his property, Mrs, 
Potts slipped into the room, and laid hands upon the keys of the 
fortress. 

The morning being bitterly cold, Mr Narrowsmitb did not un- 
necessarily protract his observations, so that in less than a quarter of 
an hour Mrs. Potts was enabled to rejoin Grace below stairs. She 
now noiselessly unlocked the door, unbarred, unbolted, and un- 
chained it, for it had as many fastenings as the gale of a jail; and, 
followed by the agitated hut courageous girl, issued silently into the- 
dark street, and, closing the door as much as it were possible to do 
without shutting it (so as to be able to re-enter unperceivea), took 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 113 

tlie way to the terixinus ot the Liverpool and London railway. In 
halt an hour Miss Medlicott was racing toward llie metropolis with 
the speed ot a post-hurricane between Antigua and Barbadoes. 
Mrs. Potts, having gone thus tar in the affair, now felt that she 
ought to go a step further, and acquaint young Mr. Spread (ot w’^hose 
passion she was, aware) with the hazardous step that Grace had 
taken. It was in this way that Philip obtained that early news of 
the poor girl’s departure which enabled him to tollow her the same 
morning, by the next train that started tor London. The letter 
which he left behind him lor his parents has been already mentioned; 
they lamented the impetuosity of his proceedings, but could not but 
acknowledge that, in following the promplinafs of love, he had also 
obeyed the dictates of humanity. The dangers to which a young, 
attractive, and inexperienced girl would infallibly be exposed in the 
“ high-viced city ” to which she had desperately committed lierselt, 
were only too easilj^ imagined. But Philip’s pursuit was vain. 
When he arrived in London he was much in the situation of Antiph- 
olus ot Byracuse: 

“ I to the world am like a drop of water, 

That in the ocean seeks another drop; 

And faihng there, to find his fellow forth, 

Unseen, inquisitive, confoimds itself.” 

After aiortnight spent in unavailing researches, following twenty 
false scents, huutins all manner of places ot refuge, probable and 
improbable, possible and impossible, ollices for providing governesses, 
asylums tor destitute females, boarding-schools, lodging-houses, 
even theaters, wherever he could trace anything of the feminine 
gender named Medlicott, he was just on the'^ point of abandoning the 
chase, when he saw in a newspaper, among a list ot passengers who 
had recently sailed for Osteud, in a packet called the “ Fire Ply,” 
the name of Miss Medlicott, of whom, upon inquiry, he received a 
description, which left no doubt upon his mind but that it w^as 
Grace. He followed by the next packet, missed her at Antwerp, 
nearly came up with her at Aix-la-Chapelle, arrived at Cologne the ' 
very day she left it for Coblentz, and would have overtaken her at 
Coblentz if she had not just preceded him to Ems; from Ems slie 
led him a dance to Schlangenbad, from Schlangenbad to Wiesbaden, - 
from Wiesbaden to Mayence; there he almost had a hold of her, but 
she slipped out of his hands like a spirit, and hovered before him to 
Baden-Baden, where he at length overtook the fair fugitive, at the 
Badischer-Hoff. It was evening; she was gone with her party lo 
the Kur-Saal. Poor Grace! — what a change of scene was that for 
her! Philip ranged the rooms, scrutinized every face, he met, and 
was just beginning to think that fortune was about to baffle him 
once more, when he heard the name of Miss Medlicott— Unfortu- 
nate Miss Medlicott!” — pronounced at his elbow, and turning quick 
round, was just in time to see the lady thus unpleasantly alluded to 
lose fifty florins at rouge ei-noir ! She was as like Grace as he was 
to Hercules. 

This was but one of the several unavailing efforts; it was the first 
research in which he had ever exhibited perseverance; at length, 
however, he abandoned all hope of recovering the lost lady, and> 
pale and dispirited, retraced his steps to England. 


114 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


CHAPTER XX 

He asked the waves, and ask’d the felon windSj 
What hard mishap had doom’d this gentle swam? 

And question’d every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory: 

They knew not of his story. 

Lycidas. 

Fortune declares for a Moment in the Bachelor’s Favor — The 
Nephew hns found an Uncle, but the Uncle is not Mr. Barker 
—How well Barker behaved in the House, when the W'ight 
was taken oti his Mind— Tlie Party at Far Niente— The Dean 
in his Glory — What Wines he produced to feast the Bachelor, 
who did not arrive to do them Honor— How Fortune deserted 
him again— 1 he dangerous Trick she played him— How it broke 
up the Dean’s Party— Portrait ot Mrs. Lilly, the Nurse, and of 
Mi. Mooney, the pluralist Butler— Barker in the Doctor’s 
Hands, and how he behaved in them. 

When the bachelor returned to the Albany, after his first visit to 
the Spreads at Richmond, and received from Reynolds the usual 
report ot the proceedings in his absence, he found, to his annoy- 
ance, that his ancient writing-master, Matthew Quill, had been re- 
newing his solicitations in person: but he was infinitely more 
■chagrined to learn that his door had been twice besieged by a young 
man, in an enormous rough coat, who had displayed extreme anxiety 
to see him, and had made a statement to Reynolds to the alarming 
effect that he had very strong claims upon Mr. Barker, and was ad- 
vised to press them. So the fox seems on the point ot being un- 
oar thed at last! The bachelor had eluded his tell pursuer a long 
time, but he appears now fairly run down. His agitation was visible 
to his servant; his face grew livid, his hands quivered, his voice 
stuck in his throat, as he convulsively inquired if the young man 
had given his name. 

Reynolds (svhohad his own suspicions) answered fearfully, that 
he believed his name was — Barker. 

The bachelor did his best to hide the commotion ot his mind, and 
cocking his hat more belligerently than he had ever cocked it before, 
strutted down to the House. The first man he met in the lobby was 
Mr. Matthew Quill, the man of pothooks and hangers who had 
posted himself in atnbush behind a pillar, to pounce at the proper 
moment upon the honorable member for Boroughcross. The seedy 
nnd dilapidated appearance of the old chirographer pleaded power- 
fully in his favor; he looked as if for a considerable time he had 
wanted a pot for his hooks, or, if he hud the pot, wanted something 
substantial to put in it. 

“ But what can 1 do for you, Mr. Quill? — 1 have no interest. 1 ' 
voted against the government last night. An application of mine 
would hardly save a dog from being hanged.” 

'* 1 presumed to hope, sir, that tiiere might be something in your 
own department — ” 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 115 . 

Barker smiled, and merely saia that he had not accepted the im- 
portant and lucrative office ot the Chillern Hundreds, and did not 
intend to do so. 

“ Well, sir, I’m grateful to you all the same,” said the subdued 
teacher; ” perhaps there is some other way in which your honor 
might have it in your power to do something for my poor boy?” 

Barker was touched by the humility and the tone ot real distress 
in which this was uttered, and could not help saying; 

” You have a son, Mr, Quill?” 

” A. nephew, sir— a poor fello^v thrown upon me by the death of 
a sister of mine abroad. He writes a good, round, tree, legible 
hand, sir; and though h^w’as giddy and wild when he first came 
oyer to England, and ran through a little money he had, he’s an 
honest and deserving lad, is Alexander Parker.” 

Barker repealed the name, with an interest and emphasis which 
Matthew Quill attributed to his benevolent concern in his nephew’s 
welfare. 

‘‘ Parker’s his name,” said Mr. Quill. ” 1 was the only relation 
he had living— the only friend he had to look to in all England. 
It’s as good as a novel, sir, the way he ferreted me me out.” 

“ Well, Mr. Quill—” 

“Slay a ' moment, pray, do, sir: 1 see Alexander yonder. 
Alexander !— Parker!” 

And the next moment the bachelor had the honor ot having for- 
mally presented to him the“ honest and deserving ” youth, who had 
been tor months an incubus on his spirits, and from whom, on 
several occasions, he had received such serious annoyance. 

What a weight that introduction relieved him from! Had he 
Dossessed the slightest influence, he would at that moment have joy- 
fully exercised it in behalf of the writing-master and his nephew. 
As it was, he took the former aside, put a ten-pound note into his 
hand, and ran info the House. 

It was an early sitting. Barker was so elate that he made an in- 
off ensiye obseryation upon Irish affairs — omitted a fair occasion for 
a snap at the home secretary — moved for a possible return — called 
Mr, Buckram to order for calling another member a snake, and, in 
the course of his speech, refrained from calling Mr. Biickram a viper 
— then, with a bow to the speaker, and without a bow-wow at the 
Treasury bench, he left the House, and went down to dine with the 
Dean of Ormond, intending to sleep and spend the following day at 
the Spreads. Seldom had the bachelor been in such high spirits — 
never, certainly, since he entered parliament. 

One of the friendliest parties that ever met was assembled that 
day at Far Niente. Tlie Spreads were there — all but Philip, who 
shunned festive scenes; the Smylys, incarnations of mirth and 
laughter; Dr. Borax, the local physician, a popular and clever man; 
Mrs.' Martin, habited in green velvet, more like a countess than a 
governess; Mr. SI. Leger, in tip-top spirits; Sir Blundell and Lady 
Trumbull, the baronet in great glee because he thought the squires 
were coming in, and a stable government about to be formeci; Tom 
Turner, preparing to veer about, and Will Whitebait, all anxiety 
for dinner, having heard that the dean’s cuisine was the most perfect 


116 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


in Enj^land: even Owlet was less abstract and monkish than usual, 
perhaps because his union wtih Elizabeth was to take place in a few 
weeks, perhaps because he had made some new convert to his 
eremitical desijjns. As to Dr. Bedford himself, his radiance, his 
benevolence, his amenity, his fullness and fatness, are only to be 
illustrated by supposine: that,- by some marvelous alchemy, the 
spirit of good humor had been distilled, concentrated, and incorpor- 
ated into a folio body of divinity. The dean had brought forth from 
his cellar, for the occasion, his oldest and finest wines: his very rever- 
end port, his right reverend claret, his episcopal champagne, and 
his archiepiscopal burgundy, fle was particularly desirous of giving 
a noble reception to Barker, not only a» the friend of Spread, but 
(what vexed Mrs. Bedford greatly) as a prominent church-reformer. 
Seven was the hour: it came and went; so dM half -past seven, 
without bringing the bachelor with it. It was unaccountable, 
especially as Reynolds had arrived, and it was therefore known that 
Barker had not been detained on business. Dinner was ordered, 
and the party sat down to dinner. It was strange that the absence 
of a single ffuest, and a guest, loo, who did not always take pains to 
win tire golden opinions of the company, should have been felt as 
Barker’s was. There were twenty speculations on the cause of it, 
some serious, some humorous. Then his public character was dis- 
cussed, and the lords of the Treasury were very witty at his expense; 
but Mr, Spread and Laura Smyly^were more than a match for them. 
Still, howevej, the bachelor did not arrive. At length, just before 
the second course was removed, an express came lor Dr. Borax, 
w^hose services were immediately required for a gentleman who had 
been almost drowned by the upseltinc: of a wherry in the neighbor- 
hood. It seemed most unlikely that Baiker should have chosen such 
a mode of conveyance; yet it was not impossible, and slight as the 
probability was, it put an end, for that day '(sorely to the annoyance 
of Will Whitebait), to the festivity at the dean’s. The doctortook 
the messenger’s horse and rode off at full speed. It was soon as- 
certained that the sufferer had been carried to a cottage on the other 
side of the river, directly opposite Far Niente. 

The Far Niente boat was out of repair, or Mr. Spread would have 
been soon at the spot; as it was, there was considerable delay, and 
it was past ten o’clock before, accompanied by Mr. St. Leger and 
Reynolds, he reacheil the spot, and discovered tliat it was indeed 
the unfortunate bachelor, to whom Fortune had played this rude 
trick. Mr. St. Leger returned almost instantly to quiet the worst 
apprehensions of the party, and reconduct the Spreads home. As 
to Spread himself, he never left the side of the bachelor's bed until 
an advanced hour on the following morning, when, the usual 
remedies having been at length successful. Dr. Borax pronounced 
his patient out of imemdiate danger; not, however, venturing to ex- 
press himself confident of his ultimate recovery. Mr. Spread then, 
after discovering, to his great surprise, that the cottage belonged to 
Mrs. Harry Farquhar, returned to the Rosary in his own boat, 
which had been sent tor him. His first care was to send to London 
(which he did with the cordial approval of the local physician) for 
the ablest medical advice. There was a consultation at the cottage 
-in the course of the day^ and the case was pronounced to wear, upon 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 117 

the whole, all things considered, and with the due number ot pro- 
visions and exceptions, a not very unfavorable appearance. 

How the bachelor (who had never been given to aquatic sports) 
got himself into so disagreeable a scrape as this will not take long 
to tell. Having proceeded as far as Fulham in a hired brougham, 
he-there bad a dispute with the driver about something or nothing, 
which ended in his discharging him, and taking a boat (the only 
resource available) for the remainder of the journey. Within a short 
distance ot FarNiente occurred one of those collisions which are not 
uncommon on the river; the wherry was overset; the bachelor was 
thrown into the water, and, being no swimmer, he would have cer- 
tainly perished had not one of the watermen rescued him; not, 
however, until he had sunk twice, and those who witnessed the 
accident believed that life was extinct. 

Mrs. Farquhar had now an occasion for displaying the good 
points ot her character, and she availed herself ot it. When she 
heard of Barker’s mishap, she evinced considerable concern, ex- 
pressed herself happy that the accident had taken place where ii did, 
and wrote instantly (in perhaps rather too dictatorial a tone), desir- 
ing that Mrs. Grace, the governess, would see that the bachelor 
wanted no attention which either she, the children, or the servants 
could pay him. This missive to Mrs. Grace was quite superfluous, 
for she had been all devotion to poor Mr. Barker from the moment 
he was brought into the house. 

Mrs. Spread was wishing that Barker could have been brought 
to the Rosary, where she could have attended him herself. 

“ It would have been better,” said Spread: ” but he is not in tad 
hands in the care of the pretty little widow; if the house w^as her 
own, and if he was her father, 1 don’t think she could do more 
than she does.” 

” Well, 1 dare say she is attentive,” said Mrs. Spread, ” but I 
shall, nevertheless, send Mrs. Lilly over to sit up with him for a 
few nights; the pretty little widow is too young, from what 1 hear, 
to have much experience in attending a sick-room.” 

Mrs. Lilly was the veteran nurse ot the Spread family; she was 
a trusty and valuable domestic at all times, but in sickness she shone 
with transcendent luster. You knew little or nothing about her 
until you had a cold or a fever; then she almost ceased to be a mere 
old woman, and became transformed into a spirit ot health and an 
angel ot life. Like the thyme, burnet, and those other plants men- 
tioned by Bacon, in his ” Essay on Gardens,” which ” perfume the 
air most delightfully when trodden upon and crushed,” it was only 
When you occasioned Mrs. Lilly trouble. When you drew upon her 
energies all day, and kept her awake the livelong night, that you 
got at the virtue that was in her. 

Spread visited his friend twice a day; the recovery was a slow 
process, rendered still more tardy by the patient’s irritability and 
nervousness. Care was taken not to let him know who was the 
proprietor of the cottage, and he continued under the impression that 
he was indebted to Mrs. Grace for the occupation of her house, as 
w'ell as for her indefatigable personal attentions. Mrs. Spread took 
an early opportunity of visiting Mrs. Grace, being anxious to see 
tire Farquhars, and also to apologize for the liberty she had taken 


118 THE BACUELOK OF THE ALBANY. 

in ‘•ending Mrs. Lilly to nurse the invalid. If Mr. Spread had been 
fascinated by the young widow, Mrs. Spread was still more taken 
with lier. She was very young, to all appearance scarcely twenty, 
not handsome, yet very engaging; singularly modest and gentle, 
yet at the same time discharging all lier duties, both as governess 
and as mistress of the house, in the absence or Mrs. Farquliar, with 
a discretion and a qtiiet firmness which, as Mr. Spread observed,, 
would have been remarkable in a matron of twice her standing in 
the world. Par from being offended at the installation of the good 
Mrs. Lilly, it gave tlie little widow the liveliest satisfaction; there 
was so much to be done, particularly in attendance on a gentleman 
and a bachelor, wdiich Mrs. Grace could only do by proxy, or could 
do but very imperfectly, without neglecting her other duties. In 
short, Mrs. Spread was in raptures with her new acquaintance, and 
wrote to her sister the next day, expressly to let her know how 
fortunate she had been in the choice of such a governess for her 
children. 

The Bedford family w’ere almost as assiduous as the Spreads in 
their attentions to Mr. Barker. When the dean was awake, he was 
always speaking of him, and longing tor the period to arrive when 
it would be proper to fit out a barge, under the command of Mr. 
Mooney, his butler, and send it across the stream with a cargo ot 
claret and burgundy, for he thought, after so much water, a little 
wine would do the bachelor no harm. I'he boat was repaired, and 
Mooney made the voyage from Far J:^iente to the cottage and back 
again twice ii day, to report the progress of the patient and the 
latest opinion of the faculty. Mooney was no light cargo himself 
for a Thames wherry, and had his voyages been round the world 
he could not have set out upon them with more importance, or 
returned with more eclat. The dean was never easy until he set 
out, and then he was never eas y until he came back. Mooney was 
a great man in his sphere, and almost as great a pluralist as his 
master. His largest benefice was his bullership; but he held several 
other little preferments, all the nicer and snugger for being Irish 
ones. He was verger of the cathedral church ot S^t Ormond, parish- 
clerk of Desert, in Tipperary, and sexton ot Burnchurch, in the 
county of Cavan. All these faculties he bore with surprising meek- 
ness, except in the servants’ hall, where he was a far greater digni- 
tary than the dean himself, drank his port like a prelate, and laid 
down the ecclesiastical law like Dr. Lushington. 

Mr. Spread had great difficulty in making Barker tolerably 
amenable to his medical advisers. The bachelor pronounced 
Chambers a quack, and Brodie a mountebank. Mr. Squills, the 
apothecary, he said, had more skill in his little finger than all the 
London doctors put together. 

“ The public is generally right,” said Mr. Spread. 

” The public is generally wrong,” rejoined the sick bachelor. 

” Etficaci do manus scientiae,” said Spread. 

” What can any man know’ of the interior of my frame?” growled 
the patient. - 

‘‘ Physicians must know more about it than either you or 1, 
Barker 1” 

“ They either do or they do not,” replied the bachelor, couching 


THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. 


119 


his sophistry in the form of his farorite dilemma. “It they do, 
they should be able to cure all manner ot disorders — there ought to 
be no such thing as a disease left in the. world; if they do not, they 
prescribe in the dark — the system is downright humbug.” 

” Still, experience is something,” said Spread, soothingly. 

” But they have none, or not halt as much as their patients. 
Plato observes very lustly, that a ph3^sician ought himself to have 
gone through all the distempers he professes to heal. Was Broclie 
ever half-drowned, as 1 was?” 

” But tell me,” said Spread, anxious to avoid further argument, 
” tell me. Barker, do you recollect your sensations when you were 
under the water!” 

” Perfectly: 1 never passed a pleasanter quarter of an hour in 
my life.” 

Spread lauirhed, rose from the bedside, carrfully avoided coun- 
seling the bachelor either to do, or not to do anything— (a discretion 
which people in general would do well to imitate, when they have 
cross-grained characters to deal with)— and rejoined his wife and 
his daughter Augusta, on the little lawn, between the cottage and 
the river; they had been anxious lo see Mrs. Grace, but the pretty 
widow did not appear, to the great disappointment of Mrs. Spread. 
Indeed, it almost always happened, when the Spreads came over to 
Mrs. Farqubar’s, that the young^6>Mi7er7rawie was either not at home, 
or so deeply engaged with her pupils or in her household affairs as 
to be unable to receive them in person. 

As to Philip, smitten as he was by Grace Medlicotl, he was in- 
different to all other women in the world. It was nothing to him 
whether the governess of his aunt’s children was a wife or a widow, 
a maid or a matron, a beauty or a fright. He heard his mother and 
listers highly commending somebody of the feminine gender, but 
he never inquired who was the subject of their praises, and if he 
•even heard her name, it went in at one ear only to go out at the 
other. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

You may take sarza to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flower of sul- 
phur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain, but no receipt openeth the heart 
but a true friend, to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspi- 
cions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of 
civil shrift or confession.— Bacon's Essay on Friendship. 

Barker imitates Moli^re— A Session of the Court of Conscience — 
How the Bachelor tormented himself — Barker takes the Advice 
of a wise Man, and is much the better for it — Troubles of Mrs. 
Lilly— Her Interview with ]\lrs. Grace— Mrs. Lilly receives a 
Picture and undertakes a Commission — The Bachelor miserable 
again— How the Cuckoos and Swallows plagued him. 

After about a week’s slow but steady progress, Barker had a re- 
lapse. He was loo much given to collisions to ” turn the corner ” 
without knocking against it. Mr. Spread found one morning, on 
the small oval table at his bedside, an unopened vial, which Mrs. 
Lilly told him, in an emphatic and excited whisper, ought to have 


120 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBANY. 


been shaken and taken the night before. Spread upbraided the 
patient mildly with this rash neglect of the doctor's prescriptions. 

“ Do you remember,” growled Darker, “ what WoliSre said of his 
physicians ? — ' lls m’orclonne des remMes ; je ne'les 'pi'ends pas, et 
je gueris.’ ” 

Barker, however, was not as successful as Moli^re in this humor- 
ous way of profiting by medical advice, for he became seriously ill 
in the course of the afternoon, and an expiess had to be sent for Dr. 
Chambers. This second crisis not only alarmed the bachelor, and 
made him less difficult to manage, but it also led him to summon 
his thoughts to council upon his temporal afllairs, and hold a session 
of the court of conscience. Again and again his mind recurred to 
those repeated and earnest notices which he had seen in the public 
journals, not appealing to his interest (which a man is at liberty to 
slight, if he pleases), but rather implying that others were concerned 
as deeply as himself, assuming that he was in reality the Mr. Bark- 
er to whom the advertisements referred. He had hitherto ascribed 
these notices to a quarter from which it was now certain that they 
had not proceeded. Some mysterious connection or relationship 
was possibly, therefore, still impending over him. His brother 
might have left a son or a daughter, who would, of course, by the 
laws of nature, have the best title to their uncle’s property. He 
now began to reproach himself for not having made the proper in- 
quiries while he was in a condition to do so. It would be monstrous 
to leave his property to strangers, while there were claims of kin- 
dred to be satisfied, or while there remained a probability, ever so 
slight, that claims of such a nature were in existence. Barker 
shrunk from the idea of doing posthumous injustice as instinctively 
as he did from the risk of incurring living responsibility. But what 
was to be done? He tortured himself thinking; resolved to dis- 
patch Reynolds to Mi. Ramsay, of Chancery Lane; resolved not to 
dosD; decided upon consulting Spread; reversed his decision, and 
determined to write upon the subject ; changed that resolution again ; 
adopted twenty others in its place; but ended by making up his 
mind finally to consult the oracle of friendship. 

Then he racked himself also about things of less moment. What 
obligations was he not incurring to the proprietor of fhe cottage? 
He imagined what his own situation and feelings would be if a 
stranger, who had tumbled into the {Serpentine, were bi ought to his 1 
chambers at the Albany, and were to use them as a hospital for sev- 
eral weeks, attended by doctors, apothecaries, and nurses, and visit- 
ed there by all his friends and acquaintances. If the trouble he was 
giving, and the attentions he received, h.ad been such as he could 
make a pecuniary return for, the case vvould have been different; 
but he was under the roof of a person whom he could oul}’^ thank 
for her kind offices, and that person (to make matters worse) was a. 
young and a pretty widow. Another man in his circumstances 
would have derived satisfaction from the feeling that the widow was 
young and pretty, instead of old and ugly ; but Barker was un- 
rivaled at extracting bitter out of sweets, and what would have 
gratified anybody else only vexed and exasperated him. Mrs. Lilly 
was so conversable a woman, that she was in the habit of talking to 
herself when she had no one else to talk to; and as she mumbled 


THE BACHELOR OF THE- ALBANY. 


121 


the praises of Mrs, Grace from morning to nipht, and often so that 
the bachelor could hear well enough wliat she said, a suspicion at 
length flashed across his mind that Mrs. Grace (doubtless a crafty 
widow) had a sinister design in her attentions, and thatvMrs. Lilly 
was a tool in her hands to victimize an ill-starred bachelor with 
twelve hundred a year, and calch a lover or a legacy, according as 
he might or might not recover. A. whimsical brain is never so 
whimsical as in sickness. This absurd crotchet took so fast a hold 
of Mr. Barker’s fancy, that at last he began to persuade himself, not 
only that the doctors were engaged in the plot, but that there was 
something not purely accidental in the circumstance of the boat 
being overset close to the widow’s cottage. In short, it would have 
been -just as well for the bachelor’s ease of mind to have informed 
him from the first that the cottage belonged to Mrs. Harry Fat- 
quhar. 

As to poor little Mrs. Grace, she was the furthest person in all 
the world from harboring any sinister design against the heart of 
any man living. She was certainly all, an.xiety, even to devoted- 
ness, for the sick gentleman; but was there anything more in this 
than ordinary good-nature, not to mention the directions she had re- 
ceived from Mrs. Farquhar to pay Mr. Barker every possible atten- 
tion? It was certainly not for him that she looked so very piquant 
and wore her mourning weeds so smartly, for she never so much as 
came to his door to ask him how he passed the night, although now 
and then, when the door was ajar, he heard a musical whisper on 
the stairs, which he concluded w'as the voice of the wily widow, 
for it was very difterent from the mumbling of Mrs. Lilly. 

When Spread visited him next, the bachelor alluded to the sub- 
ject now uppermost in his thoughts, and gave the conversation such 
a turn that his friend "was under the necessity of observing: 

“ You had a brother, Barker, 1 think?” 

” Yes— he died at Bermudas.” 

“ Did he leave a family?” 

” 1 never heard that he did.” 

“Are you sure that he did not?” 

“ I can not exactly say that;” and Barker then, after some little 
hesitation, informed Mr. Spread of the advertisements which had 
been so often repeated in the leading journals of England. 

“ Ha!— how long since did the first advertisement appear?” cried 
Spread. 

“ About two months — two or three.” 

“ Well, and what did you learn from 31r. Ramsay?” 

“ Nothing— 1 never applied to him,” 

“ Never applied to him! That was wrong. Barker, very wrong,” 
said Spread, his countenance suddenly assuming its gravest expres- 
sion ^ 

“ You think so?” 

“ Of course, I do. You may have been injuring others. Sup- 
pose, for a moment, the truth to be, that your hrotlier died, leaving 
a child, oi children, behind him, you would be their natural guard- 
ian in the place of their father; then suppose, fuither, that he left 
his offspring unprovided for,-'or suppose that he had property in- 
volved in fitigation, or died intestate, in which case it would be 


122 - 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


your duty to take out administration — 1 can imagine twenty cases 
in which the services of a brolher would be invaluable— excuse my 
freedom, Barker, but 1 must frankly tell you that you have, in this 
instance, indulged your aversion to business and responsibility to a 
most blamable extent.” 

This was a pleasant panorama of contingencies to present to poor 
Mr. Barker’s view. 

“But the chances,” he replied, peevishly, “ are a thousand to one 
that my»brother left no family — 1 never heard that he was married.” 

“ He may have left children, nevertheless; legitimate or not, they 
would naturally look to their father brother for advice, counte- 
nance, and protection.” 

The sigh which here escaped the bachelor was so comic, that it 
was with no little difficulty Spread retrained from smiling. 

“ How coolly you talkof protectorships and guardianships — going 
to law and taking out administration!” said Barker, languidly, and 
falling back upon his pillow. 

“ It is‘a great pity, ray dear friend, that the path of duty should 
not be always strewn with flowers; but we must tread it, be it ever 
so thorny.” 

“ What would you have me do? 1 am prepared to take jmur ad- 
vice.” 

“ What you ought to have done three months ago.” 

“ Reply to that trumpery advertisement?” 

“Undoubtedly — how do you know whether it be trumpery or 
not, until you have made inquiries? If there is nothing in it, you 
are no loser; if it should really concern you, you have only to hope 
that you have not deferred answerinsr it too long.” 

“ In what this may involve me. Heaven only knows!” 

“True; duty is sometimes very embarrassing; but 1 have uni- 
formly observed — and 1 know something of the business of life — 
that to neglect or think to shirk it, is embarrassing ahcays, ten limes 
more embarrassing in the long run than to discharge it in the first 
instance.” 

“ Perhaps you are right. Will it suffice to send Reynolds to ask 
the necessar}’^ questions?” 

“ No. I am going to town to-day: 1 will call myself in Chancery 
Lane, and acquaint you with the result on my return in the even- 
ing. Meantime, my dear Barker, keep your mind tranquil— take 
the advice of the lady in ‘ Comus,’ and 

“ ‘ Be not over-exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils.’ ” 

“ It is easy. Spread, to say, ‘ be tranquil.’ 1 believe 1 am the 
most unlucky dog in the empire.” 

“You forget you were not drowned,” said Spread, moving to the 
door. ■ 

Barker muttered something to the effect that it was too soon to 
decide whether his escape from a watery grave was a blessing or 
the contrary. 

“And,” added Spread, rolling his benevolent and pleasant eye 
round the neat little chamber, with its white curtains and open 
casement, admitting all the sweet sounds and perfumes of the sea- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


123 


son, “ here 1 find you in the nicest hospital in the world, and under 
the care of such a charming little widow — by Jove, Barker, it is 
when you are on your legs a^ain you will have to take care ot 
yourself in earnest.” 

A low growl was the answer to this speech, and Spread retired, 
without pressing his joke further at that time. 

At the foot of the staircase he met Mrs. Lilly, and had a short 
colloquy with her, as usual. 

” Well, Mrs. Lilly, what do you think ot your patient? He seems 
making way, at last.” 

“ He’s the fretfullest gentleman 1 ever see’d,’' said Mrs. Lilly, 
“ and the hardest to please; only think, sir, he won’t look at 
chicken broth.” 

‘‘ Ah! prefers giblet soup — strange man, Mrs. Lilly.” 

” And he ordered me not to think of tapioca and sago.” 

‘‘ Odd fellow!” 

” ’Deed, sir, it’s hard to know what he likes—what to give him; 
he’ll take a pill as if he was paying you the greatest compliment in 
life, but he don’t fancy powders.” 

” A most eccentric character!” said Spread, with the profonnd- 
cst gravity, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. 

” Oh, sir, ’deed, he’s very ’centric.” rejoined the worthy nurse; 
” I’m going up to him now to try will he relish some nice thin 
gruel with sugar and nutmeg; Mrs. Grace made it herself, but 1 
wouldn’t tell him so for thousands ot pounds.” 

‘‘ Why so?” asked Mr. Spread, surprised. 

” Because he always frowns so and looks black when 1 talk of 
the dear good young woman, and say how thoughtful she is, and 
how pretty and lady-like.’ 

” Well, that’s-the oddest thing you have told me yet, Mrs. Lilly.” 

‘‘ Isn’t it, .sir?” 

“But 1 hope Mr. Barker still thinks she is the mistress of the 
house — not a word, you know, of Mrs. Harry; no more than of 
tapioca and sago.” 

” Oh, not a word, sir, not a word — of course not; but you know, 
sir, I suppose, that Mrs. Farquhar is expected here the day after to- 
morrow to see the children.” 

‘‘ No, Mrs. Lilly, 1 did not know; butshe won’t think of visiting 
Mr. Barker, so he need hear nothing about her. You must be par- 
ticularly careful, however, while she remains; don’t leave the door 
of his room open for a moment.” 

” No, no. sir, I’ll take care.” 

‘‘ Very well, Mrs. Lilly, I’ll see you again in the evening; give 
my compliments to Mrs. Grace.” 

Spread went his way. and Mrs. Lilly proceeded with her nice 
thin gruel to the chamber of the peevish invalid, resolving in her 
worthy mind to be silent as the grave on the two subjects of tapioca 
and Mrs. Farquhar. 

But the baclielor had followed Bacon’s admirable prescription for 
congestion of the heart, and had derived inexpressible benefit from 
it. It was, indeed, as if Sr read had shriven him. Mrs. Lilly was 
astonished to find him as bland and submissive as he had hitherto 
been morose and obstinate. He took a small silvered pill without 


124 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


a murmur; looked at the ^?ruel without turning it ^our; and modi- 
fied his high opinion of the quantity of skill in the little finger ot 
Mr. Squills. In a short time he evinced a disposition to sleep; and 
Mrs. Lilly thought it a good opportunity to go in quest of Mrs. 
Grace to report the visible improvement ot her patient. 

She found the attractive little governess writing in a small apart- 
ment, opening into a flower-garden, where her pupils were disport- 
ing themselves, chasing butterflies and collecting heaps of minute 
snails from the leaves of the lily of the valley. 

When Mis. Grace looked up from the table at which she sat ap- 
parently examining a picture, Mrs. Lilly at once perceived that she 
liad been crying, and the good nurse was the more struck by 
the circumstance, as in the house where she had spent the greater 
part of her life she had never once seen a governess in tears, with 
the exception of Miss Pickering, when her peculations were de- 
tected. Mrs. Grace rose hastily when the nurse entered, wiped the 
evidences of grief quickly from her eyes, and returned the picture, 
which was a miniature portrait ot a gentleman, to the case belong- 
ing to it, while, with a countenance beaming with satisfaction, she 
listened to the good new's which Mrs. Lilly brought her. Then she 
expressed her hope for the twentieth time that Mr. Barker wanted 
nothing which the house <fould supply, that the voices ot the chil- 
dren playing did not reach him, and that the nurse herself was 
properly taken care of, 

“Poor lady!” said Mrs. Lilly, to herself, as she retired: “she 
w’as crying over tbe picture of her husband. Poor lady! how 
sorely she has been visited. Her heart is with him in the grave;, 
but sorrow won’t bring him back to you, poor thing! More’s the 
pity.” 

!She had scarcely made this short soliloquy, when she heard the 
voice of Mrs. Grace calling her back. She obeyed, and found the 
young widow standing beside the table, with the miniature in her 
hand again; she had again taken it from the case, and the nurse con- 
cluded it was with the intention of showing it to her; but that was 
not Mrs. Grace’s object, 

“ Mrs. Lilly,” she said, “lam going to request you to do me a 
favor. It will appear strange, but you will be kind enough not to 
ask me for an explanation at present. Take this picture, and as 
soon as Mr. Barker is considered by the physicians so far recovered 
that a little surprise — perhaps even a little agitation— would not in- 
jure him, take an opportunity of letting Hire see it. Perhaps the 
best way wmuld be to hang it somewhere in the room, where it could 
not fail to catch his eye. May 1 depend on your doing me this — 
service?” 

Mrs. Lilly promised; it was impossible, indeed, to do otherwise, 
the request was made in accents so very sweet and earnest; there ap- 
peared, too, so very simple an explanation ot the mystery, namely, 
that the widowed governess had discovered in Jlilr. Barker a friend 
or relative of her deceased husband, and desired to introduce herself 
at the proper time, through the medium of his portrait. 

When Mrs. Lilly returned to the bachelor’s room, he was wide 
awake, and as fretful and fidgety as ever. The time was drawing 
near when he might expect Spread back from town. In what a sea 


THE BACHELOR OF_ THE ALBAKY. 125 

of troubles might he not be involved before nightfall! The setting 
sun might see him the guardian ot a minor, the committee of a lu- 
natic, a plaintift in a chancery suit, or a kind of dry-nurse like Mr. 
Farquhar to a pack of obstreperous children. Poor Barker felt as 
embarrassed as the celebrated Sir Boyle Roche "who knew not 
“ whether he was an uncle or an aunt.” All sorts of dutie's, obli- 
gations, involvements, perplexities, liabilities and accounlabiliiies 
thronged and fluttered about him, like a swarm of gnats or mos- 
quitoes. The very least misery he anticipated was to find himself 
the executor of a disputed will, the center ot a group of impatient 
creditors and grasping legatees.. 

But he was harassed from without as well as from within, The 
various rural sounds which reached his ear from the surrounding 
meadows aggrieved him exceedingly, particularly the cuckoo, 
which, though supposed in general to ” mock married men,” 
seemed bent that day on mocking a single one. The swallows, too, 
were inclined to be impertinent; they went on twittering just as if 
there was nobody in the cottage but Mrs. Lilly, or as if everybody 
was as fond of them as Anacreon, or Mr. Spread. 

Mrs. Lilly was ordered to close the windows. In doing so, she 
inadvertently laid the picture down on the small table at the side of 
the bed; however, as the patient’s head was turned the other way, 
he did not notice the circumstance; but it led, as we shall see, to a 
premature accomplishment ot Mrs. Grace’s purpose. Poor Mrs. 
Lilly! She surely had enough to do, to manage a crusty bachelor, 
without being also the diplomatic agent of a maneuvering widow. 


CHAPTER XXll. 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill, 

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the op’ning eyelids of the morn. 

We drove a-fleld. and both together heard 
What times the gray-fly winds her sultry horn. 

L/ycidas. 

Historiette ot a literary Friendship— The Quarrel— The Reconcile- 
ment — The Exchange of Rings — The Rosary on a May Even- 
ing— A Clew to the Discovery of Miss Medlicott— Dinner of the 
Icthyological Society — Philip Spread flies on the Wings of 
Love to the Cornish Coast— Arrival ot Mis. Briscoe and Letty 
— Mrs. Spread’s domestic Troubles — Mrs. Martin grows 
troublesome— Threatens to lecture Mr. Barker — Ends with 
lecluriug Elizabeth Spread — Library tor the Sick-Room— A 
Parcel of Books is made up for the Bachelor. 

It was late in the evening when Spread returned from town. Ee 
had not seen ^the gentleman named in the advertisements (for he 
happened to be in the country), but he had learned from one of his 
clerks that Mr. Ramsay of Chancery Lane only represented his 
brother, a cleigyman in Corn w’ all, who w^as the proper party to ap- 
ply to. The clerk, in fact, knew' no more about the matter, thau 
that the person chiefly interested in the inquiry was young, an or- 


126 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 

phan, and a female. Mr. Spread could do no more than note down 
the name and address of the Cornish clergyman, and return to re- 
port the very little progress he had made. 

As he rose to take leave of his friend, alter a visit, the duration of 
which was proportioned to the news he had to communicate, the 
case containing the miniature caught his eye, and he look it up and 
opened it almost unconsciously. 

“ What is that?’' asked Barker, seeing a picture in Spread’s 
hands. 

“ 1 ought to ask you,'' said Spread; “ is it not yours?” 

” Mine? No— how did it come theie?” 

*‘ More than 1 can explain,” said Spread, handing the miniature 
to the bachelor, who no sooner glanced at it, than he started, and 
exclaimed: 

“ Raymond?” 

” Then you know whose it is,” said Spread. 

Baiker made no reply, but continued to gaze intently and affec- 
tionately upon the picture, again murmuring—” Raymond!” 

Spread saw he was affected, and remained silent, 

“It is like, very like an old friend of mine — 1 do not think. 
Spread, you ever saw him.” 

” No,” said Spread ; ‘‘ if 1 had, 1 should have recognized the like- 
ness; 1 have a retentive memory for faces, and that is a remarkable 
one.” 

” Doubtless an accidental resemblance,” said Barker. 

” Shall 1 question Mrs. Lilly about it?” said Spread. 

‘‘ I’ll question her myself,” said the bachelor; and having once 
more scrutinized the picture, he restored it to the case, and replaced 
it on the table. 

Spread left the cottage that evening without seeing Mrs. Lilly; 
but Barker seized the first opportunity of interrogating her on the 
subject; and the worthy dame, being contused by the suddenness 
of the inquiry, and the consciousness of having acted the part she 
had undertaken with maladresse, gave a very unsatisfactory account 
of how the picture found its way to the bachelor’s bedside; but 
said ihat, of course, she presumed it belonged to Mrs. Grace. Mr. 
Barker made no remark, and the nurse, having arranged his cham- 
ber (an office which she discharged with a terlious minuteness that 
invariably elicited sundry small growls from the impatient patient), 
retired, much discontented with herself, to an adjacent room. 

Raymond— Raymond. Barker had for many years almost forgot- 
ten the name, but now that accident recalled it, a hundred recollec- 
tions of scenes and places, of pleasures and pursuits connected with 
that name, came tumbling in quick succession from the long un- 
visiteil nook in the cave of memory, as moldy papers br old coins 
roll out of the recesses of some cabinet unlocked for three genera- 
tions, He had met Raymond in his fresh youth, before his cynical 
character had been formed, and they had contracted an ardent 
friendship, like that of Cowley and Hervey, or Milton and his 
Lycidas, upon the basis of a common passion tor the pursuits of 
literature. Hand in hand they had roamed the flowery tracts of 
Greek and Roman learning, more thoughtful of wit and philosophy 
than of prosody and syntax— not in the steps of the Bentleys and 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 


127 

Bloomfields, to discuss the digamma, or wrangle about accents, 
but to gather the sweet fancies, the deep maxims, and the glorious 
sentiment of the bard, the historian, and the orator. Together they 
had lingered over Livy’s pictured pace; listened, enchanted, to the 
notes of “ sweet Electra’s poet;” laughed (especially Barker), with 
Aristophanes and Lucian, at the perennial lollies and impostures ot 
the world; and thence repaired to the famous orators— 

“ Those ancients, whose resistless eloquence 
Wielded at will the fierce democratic — ” 

to learn how the thunder-bolts of speech were forged by the Cyclo- 
pean hands of old. Descending the stream of time, the young fel- 
low -travelers through the commonw^ealth of letters lapidlv visited 
all that is most worthy of note or cultivation in the literature of 
Italy and France, but lingered over that of their own country, traced 
and retraced its highways and its byways, “ in prose and rhyme,”' 
until, like the old swairi, they 

‘‘ Knew each lane, and every alley p^reen, 

Dingle and bushy dell in that wild wood, * 

And every bosky bourn from side to side.” 

It is in haunts like these that the fastest friendships are formed; 
in the common adoration oT Milton, or the common joy in Shake- 
speare. Barker rt called the very places where he and his friend 
made their first acquaintance with the masterpieces of the English 
language; there w'as a path through some meadows, not far from 
the spot where he was now confined, hallowed in his mind by 
association with the fables of Dryden; under the ruin of a great 
tree in Kensington Gardens he had listened to Raymoud reading 
Lycidas; and he particularly remembered his own raptures at the 
invective upon the clergy of the church ot England, w^hich the re- 
publican poet puts into the mouth of St. Peter, in the course of that 
noble pastoral dirge. Raymond’s tastes w’ere softer than Barker’s; 
his temperament was melancholy, without being morose. There 
was something mysterious about his family and position in life, 
which, with all his intimacy, the bachelor recollected that he had 
never been able to fathom. He was limited in his circumstances, 
and careless about making them better. He seemed peifectl}^ iso- 
lated in the world, and likely alw'ays to remain so. Though his 
manners were gentle and his tastes refined, Barker was rather dis- 
posed to think that his origin was humble. After the first year of 
their acquaintance, Raymond’s small income must have been con- 
siderably reduced, for he sought to turn his literary talents to ac- 
count, and became a repoiter to a weekly newspaper, and a con- 
tributor to several reviews and magazines. He wmuJd have risen in 
that path, thcuny and tedious as it is, had he persevered; but he 
had liitle ambition, and less avarice. Many an empty coxcomb 
strutted about town in Raymond’s literary feathers; many an editor 
regaled himself at Blackwail with the remuneration which Ray- 
mond neglected to claim for his brilliant papers. Barker pointed 
out in vam the folly of working hard for neither fame nor money. 
Raymond was easily convinced, but never reformed. He was 
thoughtless and reckless ot himself, as improvident as if he expected 


128 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAFTY. 


to be fed by the ravens, or by manna dropping from the skies. He 
made friends, but made no use of them when mode. He lost 
friends, and took no pains to recover them. ISow and then some 
high-minded man, with social or political influence, aware of his 
worth, or charmed by some production of his pen, would make an 
effort to raise him to his proper place in society; but he commonly 
repelled such services, and seemed perversely to prefer a precarious 
to a certain revenue. At length he wrote a tragedy; it was printed, 
and pronounced not only a fine piece of dramatic writing, but emi- 
nently adapted to the stage. The managers of two theatres ofl:erefl large 
terms to secure it, but Raymond had not written it for representa- 
tion, and obstinately refused both proposals. This was the occasion 
of the only disagreement (save on points of criticism) that had ever oc- 
curred between him and Barker, who could not see, without extreme 
impatience, the road to reputation and independence opened to his 
friend in vain. He urged him vehemently to take the prudent 
course, and censured him harshly when he proved inaccessible to 
reason. The sensitive author was offended, and the intercourse of 
friendship was suspended tor some weeks. But Barker was seized 
with a malignant fever, and instantly Raymond w-as at his side. 
When the bachelor rose from his couch, a stranger would have been 
at a loss to decide whether he or his friend had been the victim of 
disease. Their final separation was then near at hand. Raymond 
had at last been induced to accept a small colonial appointment. 
Barker was grieved to lose him, but glad to see uncertainties at 
length exchanged lor certainties. When the heavy hour arrived, 
the young men (neither had reached his three-and-tweiitieth year) 
embraced with more than brotherly aftection, and, with a sentiment 
becoming their age, exchanged their rings, Raymond’s was a car- 
buncle, with a head of Shakespeare; Barker’s a topaz, with his 
heraldic emblem, a mastiff. The Atlanlicsoon divided them; afew 
letters were interchanged, and then poor Raymond was no more 
heard of. 

All these, and many other incidents connected with the same 
passage of his early life, floated in tiuick succession through Barker’s 
awakened memory; while the deepening shadows of evening suited 
the strain of melancholy thought, and induced a dreaminess of 
mind which, spanning like an arch the gulf of years, reunited the 
present with the past, and almost restored his friend to his bosom. 
He raised his finger to his eye, to contemplate the gem which had 
once been Raymond’s, but scarcely could distinguish the work of 
the sculptor. The bats were flitting in the twilight, but they gave 
him no molestation. He fell bacit upon the pillows, sighed, and 
slept. 

Meanwhile Spread had returned to his ever-smiling home. How 
beautiful the Rosary looked that sweet evening! To the eyes of 
Spread, at least, it seemed a paradise; and it was a paradise, for it 
was the residence of tranquillity and love — those spirits that make 
an Eden wherever they fix their seat. The fondest of wives and 
daughters were impatiently waiting his return; he saw their fair 
forms at a distance, moving to and fro among the flowers, and 
thought of the sweet words of Martial — in eternd mvere digna vosd. 
Mrs. Spread and Augusta were side by side, speculating upon the pro- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 129 

fusion of roses which premised to make the villa, in another week, 
a rival of old PaBStum ; Elizabeth was at some distance, hearkening 
to her lover, who was descanting on the ceremony of baptizing 
chiircn-bells, while his auditress was internally wishing hi/ii to 
speak ofanotlter rite, in which she felt just then an infinitely deeper 
interest. 

At dinner Spread related the proceedings of the day, particularly 
the afiair in which he had been engaged on the part of the bachelor 
of the Albany. 

No sooner did he mention the Rev. Edward Ramsay, vicar of 
the marine parish of Sandliolme, than h s wife recollected that it 
was a clergyman of that name who had sho'wn kindness to the ill- 
fated Grace Medlicott, after her shipwreck on the coast of Cornwall. 

“ How strange, if it should turn out,” she exclaimed, “ that poor 
Grace is related to Mr. Baiker!” 

“ Not very probable,” said Spread; “ but at all events, there is a 
twofold reason for communicating with Mr. Ramsay at once: we 
may hear. something of Miss Medlicott, while prosecuting the other 
inquiry.” 

” Really,” said Adelaide Smyly, ” it seems very lucky that Mr. 
Barker fell into the river. Only think of his leaving such an adver- 
tisement as that so long unanswered!” 

“ You forget,” said Laura, slighlfy coloring, ” how much occu- 
pied he has been by his parliamentary duties.” 

” It was monstrously selfish. Miss Smyly,” said Mrs. Martin, in 
such a legislative tone that Laura ventured no replication. 

‘‘ Sweet,” said Spread, ” are the uses of attversity.” 

A decided case of the water-cure,” said Adelaide. 

Philip was not present; he had been prevailed on to aitend a festive 
meeting of the Ichthyological Society, of which Mr. Periwinkle was 
president. It was tlic first appearance of the philosophical amoroso 
in public since his return from the Rhine; and the assembled 
ichthyologists attributed his pale features and languid airs to the 
enthusiasm with 'which he had devoted himself to the objects of the 
association. Mr. Periwinkle made a speech less scientific than 
usual upon the occasion, introducing in the course of it some un- 
pleasant observations upon the influence of fish, politically and re- 
ligiously considered; the consequence, for instance, of whitebait in 
a parliamentary crisis, and the virtue of the herring and the cod in 
time of famine or pestilence, to appease the wrath of offended 
Heaven. He concluded by proposing Mr. Lovegrove (for the din- 
ner was at Blackwall) an honorary member of the association, a 
motion which was received with cheers«by the company, who grew 
so exceedingly jovial, that, wnen Philip left them at ten o’crock, 
three ichthyologists were half-seas over, and a professor of cqn- 
chology under the table. 

His joy may be imagined, wdien he learned the next morning that 
a clew iiad been found w'hich might possibly lead to the discovery 
of Grace Medlicott. Propose to him, indeed, to vrait for the slow 
operations of the post-office, the tedious dispatch and receipt of let- 
ters! You would have supposed, to hear him talk, that her 
majesty’s mails were earned by snail-posts, or on the backs of tor- 
toises. Before the dew was well dry upon the grass he had started 
5 


130 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

for Loiulon, and before the* sun crossed the meridian he ivas far on 
his way to Uornwall. 

“ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weaiy 

To measure kingdoms -sAith his feeble steps; 

Much less shall he that hath Love’s wings to fly,” 

Nothing that tenderness, directed by sound judgment, could 
do to cure a lover of a passion, not only imprudent, but seemingly 
hopeless, had been neglected in Pliilip’s case. When it was evi- 
dent that love was seated too deep to be reached by counsel and le- 
monstrance, his parents interfered no longer, but left the disease to 
the slow but sure operation of the old surgeon with the scythe and 
liour-glass. This was indeed the only chance of recovery, for the 
missing girl had more than captivated the affections of young 
Spread— she had changed his character: he was no longer “ the 
fickle Philip,,” or” Philip the Inconstant;” the present was none of 
the slight sentimental attachments that evaporate in a sigh or go off 
in a sonnet; it was ” an inward bruise ” and serious affection of the 
heart, which you might as well hope to cure witli ” parmacet: ” as 
dream of healing with philosophy. His fathei fancied tor a while 
that mathematics might restore him to reason, as if triangles, which 
have their loves themselves, were capable of restraining the amorous 
inclinations. At all events they had no such effect on Philip. His 
essay on insect-geometry lay unfinished on his table; the bees con- 
structed their' golden Halls, and the spiders threw their suspension 
bridges across the walks, unstudied and unobserved by our enam- 
ored' savant. 

The party at the Rosary was re-enforced before dinner by the ar- 
rival of the vigilant ]\lrs. Briscoe and her lazy, fat maid. Poor Mrs. 
Briscoe still harbored a grateful reminiscence of the attention paid 
her by Mr. Barker at the railwaj/ station, when the bachelor insisted 
upon carrying her sac-de nuit ; she instantly proffered her services 
to go over and nurse him, and being with great difficulty dissuaded 
from that design, set her heart just as intently upon nursing Pico, 
who happened at the time to be slightly indisposed. Mrs. Spread 
had never been so full of affairs since her wedding-day. There was 
the attention due to her husband s, friend, the preparations for her 
daughter’s nuptials, her anxieties about Grace Medlicott, and the 
dirficulty of keeping, not only Mrs. Briscoe quiet, but Mrs. Mai'Un 
also, Mrs. Marlin began to be troublesome just now in her own 
way. She expressed much surprise and displeasure when she learned 
that Mrs. Grace had never visited Mr, Barker at a period so favor- 
able for serious and improving conversation. It w'as throwing away 
the time, she said, for making a lasting impi’ession. In short, she 
announced her intention of giving the ascetic bachelor a course of 
clinical lectures, as soon as he was sufficiently restored to admit 
visitors. 

“'Why, the woman must be mad,” said Mr. Spread. ‘‘Barker 
would just jump out of the window, were she to enter his room for 
any such purpose.” 

” I’ll positively forbid it,” said Mrs. Spread; and, as she knew 
how to be decided and peremptory at the proper time, Mrs. Martin 
wjis compelled to abandon her didactic designs; which, however, 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 131 

she did not do, without turning her artillery, as usual, upon poor 
Elizabeth Spread. 

“ The sick-room, my dear Elizabeth,” said this notable mistress 
of arts, beginning her second lecture upon the causeuse in her dress- 
ing-room, the sick-room is the place where a woman ought most 
to shine. You will feel the truth ot what I say as soon as you are 
married, and have your husband in a tever, or a fit ot the gout, my 
love, which, when he is a beneficed clergyman, will probably be 
once or twice in a year.” 

” 1 hope not, Mrs. Martin,” said the still Elizabeth, very gravely. 

” 1 hope so, too, my dear— of course 1 do; but allow me lo pro- 
ceed. It the conversation of a woman ought to be edifying at all 
times, how much more, Elizabeth, when a brother, a friend, or a 
husband is confined to a sick-bed. Then is the time, believe me, 
tor elevating a man’s moral standard, leading him to enjoy intellect- 
ual pleasures, and curing him of that besetting sin of men— of all 
the men 1 ever knew — selfishness.” 

‘‘ Surely, my father is not selfish,” said Elizabeth. 

” 1 only lay down general propositions, my dear— your father is 
the least selfish man 1 ever met with— but now, do follow me. ’ 1 do 
think 1 should have been of great service, morally, to Mr. Barker, 
if your mother had consented to my visiting him a few times. The 
advantages the sick-room affords aie immense. 1 have seen men in 
health take up their hats and walk out of rooms when a sensible 
woman was trying to engage them in improving conversation. 1 
have known others whistle tunes, or play with a child or a grey- 
hound. The}’- can’t do such things when they are confined to their 
beds. They can, of course, and they iciU, as often as they can, my 
dear, try to divert the conversation to the news of the day, or the 
gossip of the neighborhood— but this you must never condescend 
to. It is much better, Elizabeth, not to amuse at all, than to be 
amusing without being at the same time instructive. But to return 
to the sick-room. 1 have taken the- trouble to classify the disorders 
and accidents to which men are most liable, and the topics ot con- 
versation suitable to each case. Yoir will find them arranged in ihis 
paper, for convenience’ sake, in a tabular form. Take it, my dear, 
copy it, and keep it always by. you. There is also subjoined a list 
of books adapted to invalids. 1 call it my Library for the Sick- 
Room. Now go, Elizabeth, my dear, and by way of an exercise 
up< n what 1 have been saying to you, select from your father’s 
library the books you think fittest for poor Mr. Barker’s case; 1 
will revise it, and the books can be sent to the cottage in the course 
cf the day.” 

The parcel of books which Elizabetb, aided and abetted by Ade- 
laide Smyly, prepared for the bachelor’s amusement, subject to the 
approbation of Mrs. JMartin, consisted ot the following works, all 
appropriate, certainly, either to his chjiracter or his recent misad- 
venture: “Falconer’s Shipwreck,” “The Loss of the Medusa,” 
“ L^’^cidas,” “ The Triumphs of Temper,” “ The Bachelor ot Sala- 
manca,” “Crotchet Castle,” and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton’s 
“ Essay on the Water Cure.” Mrs. Marlin took out “ The Bache- 
lor of Salamanca,” and judiciously replaced it with “ Cmlebs in 
Search of a Wile;” she then added her own treatise on “The 


132 


THE BACHELOE OF THE ALBANY. 


Prerogatives and Dignity of Woman;” and Owlet insisted on 
stuffing in ” Ward’s Idea of a Christian Church,” and a couple of 
dozen of tlie Oxford tracts. But it fortunately happened that Mrs. 
Spread revised the entire collection before it sailed for the cottage, 
abstracted nine-tenths of the lot, and supplied their places with pub- 
lications which she thought would be more agreeable to Mr. Barker. 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

There be laud-rats and water-rats, -water-tliieves and land-thieves— I mean 
Merchant of Venice. 

Doings of Mrs. Harry Farquhar— How the Swallows maltreated the 
Bachelor — He hears a Dialogue not meant for his Ear— Charac- 
ter of the Hon, Mr. Saunter — Dean Bedford’s Present to My. 
Barker— The Risk that it ran of being carried oil by Pirates on 
the River— A Lord of the Treasury gets a Duckiug — How the 
Piracy was prevented, and who arrested the Pirates — Mr. Far- 
quhar prefers a quiet Dinner at the Cottage to a gay one at the 
Star and Garter. 

Mrs. Harry Farquhar was a woman of pleasure every inch; 
she lived only for it, and was ready to die tor it, too, the victim of 
a/eYe, or the martyr of a ball. She was not only a rake at heart, 
but rakish in her heart’s core. In the merry month of May she al- 
ways began to feel picnickish; and hers were generallj’^ the earliest 
expeditions to Eel-pie Island, and parties at the Star and Garter. 
Maternal cares sat as lightly on her as diocesan duties on absentee 
prelates. She kept governesses for her children, just as heads of 
departments keep secreta-ries or deputies, to shift the burden of office 
trom their own shoulders, and where a little parental superintendence 
was indispensable, she devolved it on Mr. Farquhar, who, by dint 
of practice, was grown a capital children’s maid, and a very useful 
and tidy person in a nursery. 

Mrs, Harry came thundering down in her pony-phaeton and a 
cloud of dust on the day which she had affectionately fixed for pay- 
ing her little ones a visit. Perhaps this was her primary object; if 
so, it was only incidentally that she had named the same day for a 
gay dinner at the Star and Garter, where she usually opened her 
summer campaign. 

It had been arranged that Tom Turner, 'Will Whitebait, and the 
Honorable Mr. Saunter should meet her at thecottage at four o’clock 
and from thence, ” launched on the bosom of the silver Thames,” 
proceed to join the rest of the party at the festive place and hour. 

The day was brill iaiit and warm, as if the sun was as much Mrs. 
Harry’s devoted servant as the lords of the Treasury. The cuckoo 
was indefatigable; the swallow' clamorous; the cloudless sky w^as 
full of pleasing sounds and sweet odors, and the river ran smooth, 
splendid, and harmonious as the immortal verse of the bard of 
Twickenham. Barker's wincio'ws were again open, -and the soft 
south wind that ventilated his chamber was more salubrious than 
all the medicines in the pharmacopoeia. He felt its influence — the 
” healing on its wings ’’—and sat up in the bed, to take larger 
draughts of the delicious air that floated about him. The next mo- 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


133 


merit s^omething struck the white curtain of his bed, and there was 
a loud twitter just at his ear. It was a swallow, more presumptuous 
than his fellows, which had actually dared to penetrate the bache- 
lor’s bedroom. 

“ Shut the window, Mrs. Lilly.” 

Poor swallow! had 3mu been a cormorant or a vulture. Barker 
could not have looked fiercer, or spoken in a surlier key. 

Mrs. Lilly obeyed, but not without a mumbled remonstrance in 
behalf of the fresh air, in whose virtues her belief was potent; nor 
without muttering a series of low, inarticulate, benevolent noises, 
as much as to say (as far as the language was translatable into the 
vernacular) she was extremely sorry the birds were so ill-mannered, 
but that at the same time she had never heard, in tale or song, of a 
swallow eating anybody up, much less a member of the imperial 
parliament. The day was so hot, however, and the mom so small, 
that Barker was soon obliged to recall Mrs. Lilly, and have the win- 
dow reopened. But he thanked her this time for her services, and 
then said she migiit go down-stairs: he would signify by pulling the 
bell when he next required her attendance. 

Meanwhile a little group of personages had assembled in front of 
the cottage, immediately under the bachelor’s apartment, and he 
soon had his attention aiverted from the twittering of ine swallows 
by the chatter of human voices. 

‘‘ It’s a wonderful recovery,” drawled the Honorable Mr. Saun- 
ter, who spoke at tUe rate of a syllable a minute. 

‘‘ Not at all wonderful,” said Will Whitebait; ” the doctors pro- 
nounced the case hopeless, and he recovered out of pure opposition. ” 

*' How did the accident happen?” 

” There are various accounts; the truth is, he overset the boat 
himself.” 

” He was near oversetting the government more than once,” said 
Turner. 

Barker overheard every word, and very speedily discovered that 
he was himself the subject of the conversation. 

‘‘ What a capital nickname Mrs. Harry has for himl” 

‘‘ What?’' 

‘‘ Peter the Hermit.” 

“Capital!” 

“ 1 lost one of the best dinners in England by the accident, at that 
villa yonder,” said Whitebait; “ it broke up the party.” 

“ The party you love best. Will — the dinner-party.” 

“ 1 own the soft impeachment,” said Whitebait, “ that’s the party 
for me. Talk of able governments, and stable governments, the best 
government of all is the table government. By the bye, it is half- 
past five, and Mrs. Harry not arrived. I shall eat enormously to- 
day; that 1 foresee, Tom.” 

“ So shall 1,” said the Honorable Mr. Saunter. 

“You eat enormously every day, 1 think,” said Turner. 

“ No,” replied Saunter; “ I have had no appetite for some days 
back. 1 do not feel quite well.” 

“ How do you feel?” asked Turner. 

“ Wakeful — a most distressing sensation; but 1 thintt 1 know the 
cause of it— taking tea at breakfast.” 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


134 

“Tea!” cried Whitebait; “I have not taken tea for breakfast 
for several years; wlien I did, it used to keep me awake all day.” 

“ Precisely— that’s the effect it has on me; I’ll take chocolate in 
future.” 

Instead of feeling, with Sallust, that the body is a clog on the 
mind, the Honorable Mr. Saunter rather felt that the mind, the lit- 
tle mind that he had, was a clo^ on tlie body. He actually wished 
himself more of a mere animal than he actually was. When his 
brain was in the least degree active, he thought himself out of order; 
indeed, his intellect seldom evinced the slightest vivacity, except under 
the influence of champagne, or tne excitement of cigars and brandy. 

“1 hope and trust we shall not have. rar([uhar,” said Will 
Whitebait. 

“ The idea of Mrs. Harry having her husband at one of her din- 
ners! No — Farquhar will stay at home and dine with the children 
on mutton-chops.” 

“ The children are here with their governess,” said Tom Turner; 
“but, hurrah! here comes Mrs. Harry — here comes my Faery 
Queen— her ponies 'centre-d-terre — by Jove, she's the best whip and 
the best fellow in Emiland.” 

“ She is what 1 call a brick,” drawled the Honorable Mr. Saunter. 

At the mention of the name of Farquhar, Barker had raised his 
night-cap and cocked his ears; but now, no longer able to restrain 
his curiosity, he scrambled out of bed, weak as he was, donned his 
robe-de cliamhre, wrapped himself in the counterpane, thrust his feet 
into his slippers, and he had just crept over to the window as the 
pony-phaeton, turning a sharp angle in the little plantation that in- 
tersected the lawn, drove smoking up to the door; and the aston- 
ished bachelor beheld Mrs. Harry, in all her noonday splendor 
(green silk diess, pink crape bonnet, ard niarabout feathers), re- 
ceiving the homage of the three political butterflies, whose faces he 
was perfectly familiar with in the House. He had already heard 
quite enough to settle who was the true owner of the cottage; but 
all doubt on the subject was removed when he saw a modest and 
elegant young woman, in widow’s weeds, appear to present her 
pupils to their dashing and dissipated mother. 

Mrs. Harry merely nodded to Mrs. Grace, hastily caressed her 
children, and desired one of the gentlemen to see that the boat was 
ready. Whitebait proceeded on this mission, and Mrs. Harry, nod- 
ding again to Mrs. Grace, strutted down to the water-edge, followed 
by Saunter and Tom Turner; Tom playing with her tiny parasol, 
and Saunter crawling after, oppressed with the weight of her cash- 
mere shawl. * 

Just at this moment Mr. Mooney (the pluralist butler) arrived, on 
his daily cruise with Dr. Bedford’s kind messages to Mr. Barker; 
and upon this occasion he was also the bearer of a small hamper 
containing some bottles of the dean’s episcopal Madeira, well worth 
all the drugs that Mr. Squills ever brayed in a mortar. Mooney 
looked so round and so reverend, that Turner and Saunter thought 
he was the great dignitary himself. Saunter w'as on (he point of 
taking off his. hat and making him a low obeisance. 

“What’s in the basket?” demanded Mrs. Harry, in her sharp, 
imperious way. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 135 

“ Half a dozen of Madeira, madam,” replied the buxom butUv, 
quailing under her vixenish eye. 

Will Wliilebait had tasted the clean’s Madeira, and knetv how 
marvelous it was; he whispered something to Mrs. Harry, who in- 
slanll}' ‘called to the governess: 

‘‘ B3' the b3'c, Mrs. Grace, I forgot to ask for Mr. Barker. What 
do the doctors say V VY ill he recover?” Had she been ttilkiug of her 
sister’s lap-dog she could not have asked the question in a more un- 
concerned tone. 

The bachelor heard every syllable; Mrs. Harry’s voice was clear 
and shrill, and there was not more than twenty yards between 
them. 

” He is much better— nearly well,” answered Mrs. Grace, shocked 
at the levity of the inquiry; and glancing anxiously behind her, she 
was still more horrified to observe the windows of Mr. Barker’s 
room wide open, ancl standing at one of them a strange spectral 
figure, imperfectly shrouded by the curtain, which could be no 
other but the sick gentleman himself, although it might well have 
been taken for the apparition of Menippus, or the ghost of Piron. 

‘‘ But is he allowed to take wine yet?” cried the" little conscience- 
less Amazon again, 

” Not yet, 1 believe,” replied the agitated young widow. 

“Then we may as well have the Madeira up to the Star and 
Garter,” cried Tom Turner, looking at Mrs. Harry, who winked 
and nodded her perfect concurrence in a step she had already re- 
solved on; and in another moment (to the amazement of Mr. 
Mooney) the hamper was in the grasp of the larcenous lord of the 
Treasury. 

Instantly the furious ringing of a bell was heard from the house. 
Mrs. Grace alone knew what it imported. Barker would have 
freely made a present of the wine, and thought it a very small re- 
turn for the attentions he had received in Mrs. Parquhar’s house; 
but he had no notion of allowing himself to be openly pillaged and 
imposed on. 

” Push off!” cried Mrs. Harry. 

The boatman obeyed; and Turner, wdio was just at the moment 
engaged with both his hands, depositing the confiscated wine in the 
bottom of the boat, was dragged into the water and ducked up to 
his waist. Tom was a dandy, and attached enormous importance 
to spotless trousers and dazzling boots, which made the disaster in 
his case, doubl}' disagreeable. 

Mrs. Grace was silent, but she looked pleased; the little Far- 
quhars set up a cheer, and even Mrs. Harry herself could not help 
smiling at the ridiculous plight of her camliere se'r'vante. Another 
laugh was heard at the same instant — it was that of a woman cer- 
tainly, and a wmman not far off; but nobody was. visible; perhaps 
it was only an echo. Tom bore both the ducking and the ridicule 
exceedingly well ; with a single but very tragical glance at his boots, 
he jumped into the boat, dripping like a water-god, and the pirat- 
ical crew was just making off with their prize (heedless of Mrs. 
liilly, who was hurrying to the water-side, with the proverbial 
expedition of her age and office) when a young lady, graceful and 
spirited as one of Diana’s maids of honor, sprung from behind a 


136 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 

clump of lilacs and acacias, caught the boat-chain -which still trailed 
on the ground, and, -with a ringing laugh, the exact counterpart of 
that which had just been noticed, attached the whole party of 
piracy in the name of her majesty. Queen Victoria. 

The merry officer of justice upon this occasion was instantly 
recognized, not only by the crew of the “ jolly boat,” but by Mr, 
Barker, from his ohservator3% as one of the Smyly girls. Indeed, 
the bachelor, who had a quick eye and a retentive memory, decided 
at a glance that it was Laura. She had been visiting at a house at 
no great distance, and intending to cross over to Far Niente, her 
head-quarters, she had come down to the cottage, where she knew 
that at four o’clock she would be sure to catch the dean’s boat. 

Mrs. Harry made a joke of the Madeira affair — the only thing to 
be made of it. 

“We must give you an office in the Preventive Service, Miss 
Smyly,” said Mr. Saunter. 

“ 1 should be loo active to please you,” said Laura. 

“ A place would cure you of that fault,” said Mrs. Harry. 

“ A place in the Treasury, certainly would,” said Laura, looking 
at the Honorable Mr. Saunter. 

“Push off— we shall be late,” cried Mrs. Harry; “good-by. 
Miss Smyly. Mrs. Grace, tell Mr. Barker 1 am glad to hear so 
good an account of him. He may stay here as long as he likes, 
but 1 advise him not to make too free.” 

Miss Smyly chatted awhile with Mrs. Grace, to make up for the 
insolent neglect of Mrs. Harry, and then embarked with Mooney 
for Far Isiente. 

About an hour later there arrived at the cottage a gentleman of 
very respectable appearance and inoffensive demeanor. It -was Mr.' 
Harry larquhar. He merely wished to learn where his wife' 
dined; and having heard that it was at the Star and Garter, with a 
party, he serenely observed that, if Mrs. Grace would order him a 
chop he would prefer taking a quiet dinner at the cottage, 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

And either tropic now 

’Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven; the clouds 
From many a horrid rift abortive pour’d 
Fierce ram with lightning mix’d, water with fire 
In ruin reconciled. 

Paradise Begained. 

A Change of Weather — Its Effects— Who remained at Richmond 
during the Night, and who passed the Night at the Cottage — 
Mr. Whitebait on the Fine Arts — How Barker’s Sleep was 
broken, and who broke it — The Cottage on Fire — How Barker 
-was saved, and how and where Mr. Saunter was roasted — 
Vigilance and Bravery of the Smyly Girls — Mr. Mooney’s 
balmy Slumbers and golden Dreams— The Escape of the real 
Incendiaries, and who'suffered in their Stead — How Mr. Barker 
looked in the Boat— His Soliloquy. 

The night proved wet and tempestuous; at ten o’clock the rain 
fell in cataracts, and a magnificent storm of thunder and lightning 
was witnessed on the river by those who were sufficiently indifferent 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 137 

to their personal comforts to relish the elemental war. Many affect 
to enjoy such scenes, while in their hearts they wish themselves 
snug in their beds, or in any mouse-hole, it is so romantic and 
Byronish to talk familiarly oi thunder, and affect a friendship with 
tornadoes! Mi. Farquhar had more sense, for he gladly accepted 
Mrs, Grace’s proposal to have the only spare bedroom prepared for 
him; and, in truth, as he paid the rent of the cottage, and was its 
proprietor and master in point of law, his title to the accommoda- 
tion of a night’s lodging was not a very bad one. The carousers at 
the Star and Garter were also disconcerted by the change of weather. 
After spending a jovial evening, even witliout the help of Dean 
Bedford’s Madeira, the hour of reckoning came, that serious mo 
ment, which the old French proverb calls le quart d heure de Rabe- 
lais; and while Tom Turner, a little unsteady on the legs, was dis- 
charging the bill, and making a multitude of fiscal blunders, 
particularly disgraceful in a lord of the Treasury, Will Whitebait, 
the Hon Mr Saunter, and one or two more of the revelers, strolled, 
or, rather, rolled, out into the gardens, to cool the fiames of the 
wine of which they had drunk like mitered abbots. 

Will Whitebait was chattering on the fine arts, as he invariably 
did when he was boozy. It was highly amusing to listen to him, 
for the few ideas with which he commenced soon got jumbled with 
the fumes of the claret into the most extraordinary medle}’- imagi- 
nable; he prattled of pictures and engravings, cartoons and frescoes, 
statues and statuettes, until the subjects were quite confounded in 
his brain, and he ended with extolling Hogarth’s “ Last Supper,” 
and Poussin’s ” Rake’s Progress,” or talked of Raphael’s chisel, and 
the pencil of Canova He was now drawing nigh this last stage of 
mental aberration, and earnestly lamenting that Sir Christopher 
Wren had not been employed to erect the new Houses of Parlia- 
ment, when a vivid flash of lightning, followed by the roar of a 
whole park of aerial artillery, silenced, if it did not sober him, for 
the evening. There was scarcely lime to retreat into the hotel be- 
fore the slorm raged as we have already described; the party was 
assembled ready to depart, some by water, others by land, but only 
those who had close carriages, and they were few, were venturous 
enough to move. At last Mrs. Harry Farquhar and a few more, 
among whom was the assiduous Tom Turner, made up their minds 
to remain all night; but as fo Will Whitebait, who was always 
foolhardy after dinner, as well as foolish in other ways, he deter- 
mined to return to town and by the river, too, as he came, and all 
that the rest of the company could urge to dissuade him from such 
a mad proceeding was urged to no purpose. Indeed, he would even 
have started alone had not one of the party (a young M.P., who 
would have had no objection to fill a vacant place in the Treasury) 
offered the Honorable jMr. Saunter a wager that he would not bear 
Will Whitebait company. Had Saunter been sober he would as 
soon have jumped from the top of the Monument; but, as he was 
he booked the wager, and set oft with his discreet friend. Mrs. 
Harry, however had the charity previously to remind them both 
that there was a spare bed at her cottage, should they change their 
minds, or find it impossible to proceed further. She had, as wc 
have said, her good points, like the rest of the world. 


138 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. ' 

“ Narcissa's nature, toleroblj^ mild, 

To make a wash would hardly stew a child.” 

Such was XJfecisely the amount of humane feeling which Mrs. 
Harry had for Saunter and Will Whitebait. But it was very fortu- 
nate for them she w^as even so considerate, for the unruliness of the 
night soon cooled an ardor for enterprise which was merely the effect 
of too liberal potations. They were only too glad to put in at the 
coltaae, and their vexation may easily be imagined when, on land 
ing there, which they accomplished with great difficulty, considera- 
bly after midnight, they found the spare bedroom already ei: gaged, 
and, of all people in the world, by Mr. Farqiihar, who was only the 
owner of the house! 

Mrs. Grace had retired to rest; but, on learning that two gentle- 
men, friends of Mrs. Harry, had arrived under such circumstances, 
she got up, dressed herself hurriedly, and hastened to make the best 
arrangements in her power for their reception. On ttie whole, per- 
haps, considering the wine they had taken, that they were young 
men, and that Mrs. Grace was a fascinating woman, they did not 
extremely ill; but she was not sorry, nevertheless, to escape 
to her room, after having first provided them with some excellent 
cogniac which Mr. Farquhar had brought down with him. It was 
an unfortunate concession, for, having kindled a huge fire, and 
lighted all the candles they could find, they commenced smoking 
cigars, drinking brandy and water, singing snatches of humorous 
songs, and practicing all sorts of parliamentary noises, coughing, 
groaning, cheering, braying, and crowing, by which latter perform- 
ances poor Barker, whose room was almost immediately over them. 
Was not long in divining who the murderers of his sleep were. At 
length, however, there was silence, the rioters were evidently asleep, 
and at the same time the gale ceased, and the night was profoundly 
still. Suddenly there was a smell of fire in the cottage. Mrs. Grace 
was the first to notice it; she sprung up, ran down stairs, the room 
occupied by the disorderly young men was in flames. She screamed, 
and ran to the children’s apartment. The alarm was soon general. 
The flames advanced rapidly, and it was not without difficulty that 
Mr. Farquhar and Mrs. Grace succeeded by their united efforts in 
rescuing those who naturally were their first care. The servants 
were in but little danger, as their rooms were in a remote and al- 
EQOst detached part of^the cottage. Mrs. Grace no sooner saw the 
little Faniuhars safe, than her next thought was of Mr. Barker. To 
retut n upstairs was impossible; she ran roand to the front of the 
cottage, and the first sight that presented itself was Mr. Saunter and 
Will Whitebait forcing their way out oi the parlor windows, fol- 
lowed by the flames, which seemed doing their best to overtake them. 
The Honorable Mr. Saunter was hindmost, and his bellowing clearly 
indicated that he was already partially roasted. 

“ Oh, gentlemen, save Mr. Barker — tor the love of Heaven, save 
Mr. Barker; he is ill, and unable to save himself,” she cried,- pas- 
sionately, raising her clasped hands in earnest supplication. 

At the same moment the bachelor’s windows were thrown open, 
and Mrs, Lilly appeared despairing in dimity, and screaming for suc- 
cor. Turner called tor a ladder; the servants ran in all directions 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 139 

to seek one. but there was no ladder to be found, as generally hap- 
pens when ladders are wanting to save human lives. . 

“ Thm^ is nothing for it but to jump out,” cried Whitebait. 

“ I t’s^ifily twenty feet trom the ground,” said Saunter, rubbing 
himself in a manner w hich at any other time would have been liigh- 
ly corr.ic^ for he had got such a scorching that night that it was a 
fortnight before- he found it convenient to resume his seat in the 
House. 

A ladder, however, arrived in time tc obviate the necessity of 
jumping twenty feet, which would probably have been as fatal as 
the file both to Barker and Mrs. Lilly. To learn how this relief was 
procured, we must cross the river for a moment to Faf Nientc. The 
lire was first discovered there by the Smylys, whose chamber looked 
on the Thames, and who were the onl}’’ inhabitants of the villa v. ho 
slept lightly and intermittently. Curiously enough, Adelaide had 
that very night been pleasanting with Laura on the subject of the 
bachelor, teasing her with silly predictions tlnit she was certainly 
destined to be Mis. Peter Barker, on no better ground than that they 
had once accidentally exchanged watches, and that Laura, the day 
before, had prevented the robbery of the bachelor’s Madeira. 

‘ What nonsense you do talk,” said Laura. 

“ Love often begins with gratitude,” said Adelaide. 

” Gratitudel” cried her sister. ‘‘One would think 1 had saved 
his life.” 

‘‘ That may be in the fates, too,” said Adelaide. 

The storm w^as raging, and the lightning was flashing vividly, when 
the merry sisters went to sleep. In about two hours they were both 
awake again, and found the storm entirely abated, and their cham- 
ber utterly dark, save the perpendicular thread of gray light that 
marked tiirouirh the curtnins where the shutters of the windows had 
been designedly left imperfectly closed. 

Suddenly the room was illuminated. 

‘‘ The storm is recommencing,” said Adelade; *‘ did you see the 
lightning?” 

‘‘It can’t be lightning,” said Laura: “you see the light con- 
tinues.” 

” What can it be, then?” said the other. 

‘‘ It must be fire,” said Laura; and she was instantly out of bed 
and at the window. 

‘‘ Oh, Adelaide!” she cried, ‘‘ it is fire, indeed; and it must be 
Mrs. Farquhar’s cottage.” 

There was soon no doubt upon the subject. 

‘‘ Shall we inform my uncle?^” said Adelaide. 

‘‘What use?” said her sister. ‘‘No; but let us call up Mr. 
Mooney— he has the key of the boat-house. The best thing to be 
done is to send some of the servants over to give their assistance.” 

The girls dressed hastily; but as to calling up Mr. j\Iooney they 
might as well have called up ” thrice-great Hei’mes.” Call up Mr. 
Mooney! There are ten thousand things ea;sier said than done, and 
calling* up Mr. jMooney was of the number. Call up the Pharaohs 
from under the pyramids! He slept as if his bed was of poppies 
and his pillow steeped in mandragora. He slept as if he were de- 
scended from a thousand watchmen. Mab was at that very hour 


140 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


tickling his acquisitive Organ with other vergerships, sextonships, 
clerkships, and sundry snug little lay benefices— sinecures all of 
them; tor not even into Mooney’s visions did ‘the notion o^ersonal 
service once enter: his fancy was too Irish for that.-Upe rang 
imaginary bells by deputy, and dug graves for shadows by proxy. 
The idea of calling up Mooney from such slumbers and such 
dreams! 

However, they succeeded better with the groom and one of the 
footmen; and, the key of the boat-house having been easily found, 
the gallant sisters, followed by the men, hurried to the water-side, 
resolved to see the boat on its way before they returned to their 
room. As they issued from the house, Laura observed a ladder ly- 
ing in a passage, which a. bell-hanger had been using the day be- 
fore. It immediately struck her that it might be of service, and the 
groom, by her directions, cafiied it down. But an unforeseen diffi- 
culty occurred the moment the boat was launched. The footman 
knew as much about handling an oar as he did about cooking a din- 
ner; and the groom was just as capable of steering a boat as he was 
of piloting the nation. This was just the emergency to prove a girl’s 
mettle. Adelaide took the tiller; Laura took one of the oars, and 
the groom the other; the footman sat, like a fine gentleman, gaping 
at the fire, and doing nothing; and by this division of labor the 
party gained the scene of distress — critically in time to rescue Mr. 
Barker and the excellent Mrs. Lilly. 

The awkwardest personage in the world at escaping by a ladder 
from a house on fire is a sexagenarian nurse. It took full ten min- 
utes to save Mrs. Lilly, and when she got within four feet of the 
ground, instead of taking the rest of the descent quietly, she thought 
proper to fling herself into the arms of the Honorable Mr. Saunter, 
who was inslanMy rolling on the ground, with the old lady in dim- 
ity sprawling and screaming over him. Barker, notwithstanding 
his reduced strength, showed Ihe greatest composure and firmness, 
for, foreseeing the time it would take to rescue* Mrs. Lilly, he took 
advantage of the unavoidable delay to throw everything of any 
value on which he could lay his hands out of the window, beside 
thrusting many small articles into the pockets of his night-gown. 
When liTs turn came to take advantage of the means of escape, the 
tiames were bursting in at the door, and, as he turned his face .to- 
ward the house, after planting his feet firmly upon the ladder, they 
showed him the miniature nf his friend Raymond lying on the car- 
pet. lie deliberately went back to seize it, and, had the return occu- 
pied a minute more than it did, he would probably have been lost. 
Everybody was now safe, and Mis. Lilly thought she never could be 
grateful enough to Whitebait and Saunter, who had raised the lad- 
der to the windows. 

“ Dear, brave gentlemen; we owe them our lives,” cried the good 
woman, over and over again. . 

” Pool,” growled the bachelor, audibly, without vouchsafing so 
much as to look at the personages alluded to, ‘"we owe them the 
risk of our lives— that’s the amount of the obligation.” And he 
pushed his way to the dean’s boat as fast as an invalid could move, 
wrapped in a quilt and two pairs of blankets over his ordinary noc- 
turnal wear, 


141 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

‘'What a cross fellow 1” drawled Saunter, still using the comic 
action above described, which, it is to be supposed, w'as some relief 
to his wounded feelings. 

We have made a pretty night of it,” said Will Whitebait; and 
the worthy pair of oflicials made the best of their way on foot to 
Richmond, and from thence took a fly, and returned to London, 
without stopping to acquaint Mrs. Harry how they had burned 
down her house. That agreeable task was left to "poor Mr Far 
quhar, who was pronounced the only person to blame in the trans 
action, for presuming to sleep in his owm cottage without express 
permission from his wife. 

The ros}'' lia:ht of morning was mingling with the rudd}’’ glare of 
the yet unextinguislied flames when the boat of the Irish dean, 
manned (to use an Irish bull) by two young ladies, returned to Far 
Niente, bearing with it, in safety, not only the member for Borough- 
cross (against whom all the elements seemed to have conspired), but 
also Mrs. Grace, the little Farquhars, and the excellent Mrs. Lilly, 
who still persisted to irritate the bachelor by her thanksgivings to 
]\Iessieurs Whitebait and Saunter. Mr. Barker was amazed (as well 
he might) to meet the Smyly girls at such a moment and in such a 
situation. The servants were not slow to inform him that, in all 
human probability, he owed his life to the vigilance, address, and 
forethought of Laura in particular. He could not but Express his 
grateful sense of so signal a service; nor could Adelaide help re- 
mindiiig her sister of the prophecy she had hazarded only a few 
hours before, little dreaming how very soon it was destined to be so 
strangely fulfilled. Barker was seated between Laura and ]\Irs. 
Grace; he certainly cut a most grotesque figure in his counterpane 
and blankets, looking excessively like a deciepit old nurse; wdiile 
iMrs. Lilly on the other hand, having snatched up the bachelor’s 
blue cloak in her trepidation, and at the same time lost her cap, had 
assumed quite a manly appearance. It was a scene not to be cari- 
catured, for its humor was incapable of exaggeration. Adelaide made 
a colored sketch of it the next day from her memory, and the lime 
came when she was not afraid to show it to the principal personage 
himself. 

Barker was morbidly sensitive to ridicule, and felt as sore when 
he thought of his costume as if he had been on an ordinary aquatic 
excursion. Then to think of a man of his stamp, a man of the 
Albany, being huddled into a small boat with a parcel of girls, in- 
fants and old women — he, too, the most helpless of them alf— was it 
not as cruel a practical joke as ever Fortune played on a wretched 
mortal? ‘‘ In vain,” he rationally soliloquized, ” do we lay down 
rules of life and propose systems of conduct. We are overruled by 
chance or providence— call it what you will; our systems are 
knocked down with as little scruple as the houses which children 
build of cards; my cherished scheme of isolation and no-responsi- 
bility ended with that fatal visit to Liverpool; in truth, 1 begin to 
think that Spread had reason when he said that there was no living 
among men iminvolved in human ties and obligations. But six 
months ago J was as free and unfettered as any man in existence, ami 
here T am now, a member of parliament, probably an uncle or a 
guardian, under obligations to friends and enemies, a burden upon 


142 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

all who know jne, and indebted for my life to a couple of young 
women. But for llie care of one, 1 should have died by water, and 
but for the bravery of another, 1 should have perished in the 
flames. 

Fortune, indeed, had now very nearly demolished the Albany 
system. ISo! it was not Fortune; it was but the common action of 
the stream of human events against the life of an individual mem- 
ber of society. We qiay dwell in cities without taking municipal 
offices, accepting mayoralties, or sitting in town-councils; hut there 
is no existing in the great assemblage of the world without taking 
our share of social duties and liabilities— without being of the 
corporation. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

How am I changed I by what alchemy 
Of love, or language, am I thiis translated I 
Her tongue is tipt with the philosopher’s stone, 

And that hath touch’d me through every vein 1 
I feel that transmutation of my blood. 

As I Avere quite become another creature. 

And all she speaks it is projection. 

Jonson’s New Inn. 

Dean Bedford visits the Sick— The Bachelor’s rapid Recovery— Ex^ 
planations of it— The Magic Ring — The Discovery made with it 
— Mr. Barker promises his Friendship and Protection to a 
young Widow — Conversation at Tea — Extent of an Irish Parish 
— The Bachelor chats with two charming Girls, by Moonlight. 

The reputation of Irish hospitality. was nobly sustained by Dean 
Bedford. With open house and heart he received and 'welcomed 
the refugees, and at an'earlj’’ hour the next morning — an early hour 
for him— he proceeded, supported by Mr. Mooney (who was nearly 
as much in need of support himself), to discharge his pastoral duty, 
by visiting the sick bachelor. Any other man would liave had his 
recovery seriously retarded by the shocks his nervous system had 
recently sustained; Barker, however, was an exception to common 
rules; excitement and danger seemed to have benefited him; the 
weather, perhaps, contributed; the Spreads thought the Smyly girls 
had sorrething to do wdth it; but certainly he grew so rapidly 
better, that on the third day of his sojourn at Far JN’iente he dined on 
a boiled chicken, wdth a glass of that episcopal Madeira, and on the 
fourth he made one of the family party at their usual six o’clock din- 
ner, and answered in the affirmative Mrs. Spread’s invitation to 
assist at her daughter’s wedding on that day week. 

The interval was filled with events of interest. The bachelor, it 
will be recollected, had, at his imminent risk, saved the picture in 
which he had recognized the likeness of an old friend. On reflec- 
tion, however, he made up his mind that probably the resemblance 
was merely casual; and still fearful of involving himself with 
womankind, he restored the miniature of Mrs. Grace without mak- 
ing a single remark. She was rejoiced to recover it, but disappointed 
at its not having produced the effect she anticipated. The denoue- 
ment, however, was not fated to be long deferred. At dinner, the 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


143 


lollowing day, Barker sat beside the young -widow. The conversa- 
tion turned upon heraJdry, supporters, mottoes, crests, and blazons, 
azure, gules and argent. The dean’s crest was a porpoise couchant; 
his motto Dormio. 

“ Two good hits, Mr. Barker, are they not?” said the good- 
humored ecclesiastic, with his jolly laugh, worthy of the merry 
days ot the monasteries. 

Mrs. Bedford had prodigious respect tor the porpoise ou her 
spoons, the Established Church and the Heralds’ College were, in 
her eyes, institutions of equal sanctity; so she checked what she 
considered her husband’s unbecoming levity. 

” Too bad. Mr. Barker,” continued the jovial degn, ” not to be al- 
lowed to pick a hole in one’s own coat.” 

” Three fourths of the art of blazonry,” said the bachelor, ” con- 
sist in painting puns — what the heralds call ‘ canting arms ’ — the 
French, ‘ armes parlantes ’ — a system of vile puns upon family 
names.” 

” Your crest, I presume, is a dog?” said the dignitary. 

” A mastiff— and the mastiff is, of course, latrant.” 

Had anybody been observing Mrs. Grace, he would have seen 
that what Mr. Barker said affected her. 

“That’s the device upon your ring, 1 think, Mrs, Grace?” said 
one of the Smyly girls. 

Mrs. Grace, now visibly disconcerted, looked nervously at the 
ring on her finger, and grew white and red alternately, in the space 
of an instant. The bachelor seemed disconcerted also, but con- 
trolled his feelings better. A glance at the ring on his fair neigh- 
bor's finger showed him that it was a topaz — the iiientical ring which 
he had given, twenty years before, to his friend Kaymond, as a 
pledge of his afiection, when he parted with him on the quay at 
Bristol. 

Dean Bedford twice invited Barker to taste his imperial burgundy 
before the bachelor heard the liospi table challenge. He drank the 
wine almost unconsciously, and spoke no more during the repast. 
All the company but one ascribed the collapse ot his spirits to the 
yet unconfirmed state of his health. Mrs. Grace knew it was the 
magic ot the ring. 

An invalid was not exiiected to sit long over his wine. The 
bachelor left the dining room in ten minutes after the ladies, ap- 
proached Mrs. Grace as soon as he could without attracting attention, 
and begged her to favor him with a moment’s conference in the cou- 
se^vator3^ . Wlien they were separated from the rest of the company 
by a grove of balsams and pelargoniums. Barker acldressed the 
young widow, not without some nervousness of manner, and said: 

“ Excuse me, madam, but 1 recognized that ring upon your hand 
—you will probably be surprised when 1 tell you that it was once 
mine.” 

“fcjir,” said the widow, with charming frankness, and with a 
voice of extreme sweetness, “ it was my father’s ring.” 

“ You are the daughter, then, ot my friend Jlaymond. 1 loved 
him, madam,” said Barker, tremulous with unaccustomed-emotion, 
“ I loved him as a brother, and his daughter may reckon upon any 


144 


THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. 


service which it may be iu the power of a man who is neither in- 
fluential nor wealthy tq render her.” 

Here a projecting shoot of a geranium, loaded with scarlet flowers, 
had the presumption to tickle Mr. Barker just under the right ear, 
and he changed his position abruptlyj with a vindictive glance at all 
the plants iu the greenhouse. 

“ Your friendship, dear sir, will indeed be valuable— invaluable ^ 
1 have no other friend.” 

“ Had you any knowledge of the friendship that existed betewen 
your father and me.” 

” Yes — 5 ’^es, 1 had; that is, 1 knew h? had a friend in England of 
your name: 1 made inquiries to no purpose.” 

‘‘Inquiries: through what channels?” asked the bachelor, with 
some eagerness. 

‘‘ Through the newspapers,” she replied. ‘‘ 1 put several adver- 
tisements in the ‘ Times,’ and as 1 did not know the Christian 
name—” 

‘‘You alluded to my brother’s death— you knew him?” 

‘‘ No, the allusion was merely for the purpose of catching the eye 
of the Mr. Barker 1 wanted to discover. The picture, too — ” 

‘‘ 1 recognized the picture directly I saw it, but concluded that it 
was an accidental likeness.” 

‘‘ And 1, sir, when you returned it to me without a remark, con- 
cluded that you could not be nr^y Mr. Barker.’' 

Though the words ” my Mr. Barker *’ were so natural, they gave 
the bachelor a twitch, just as the geranium had done a moment be- 
fore, and grated on liis sensitive ear displeasingly. It was the first 
time in his existence (for he did not remember a mother) that any- 
thing in woman’s form had presumed to claim an interest, a sort of 
property in him. The pronouncing of that possessive pronoun was 
an epoch in his life, another blow to the selfish system. She stood 
before him so modest, and looked so filial, that in an instant he more 
than pardoned her: the words ‘‘ my Mr. Barker ” lingered agreeably 
iu his ear. Had it been a stroke of art in the little widow, it would 
have been quite masterly; yet, had she known the bachelor ail her 
life, she would hardly have tried it. 

Barker was the first to move; he was fearful of exciting attention 
by protracting the tete-a-UU, but as he returned to the drawing-room 
with Mrs. Grace by his side, he could not but allude to her widow- 
hood, or avoid inquiring how long it was since so great an affliction 
had befallen her. The young woman averted her face, and sud- 
denly disappeared by a side-door which led out into the grounds. 
‘‘ Ah!” thought the bachelor,” the wound is yet too recent; 1 ought 
not to have touched upon the subject.” Then, on a little reflection, 
he thought it not unlikely that, being so very young, she had made 
some imprudent marriage, probably with the ensign of a marching 
regiment, or a friendless lieutenant in the navy, who had died of 
blue cholera at IMadras, or yellow fever in Jamaica, and left her in 
the capacity of a governess, to envy the lot of a maid of all work. 

In the drawing-room he found the Spread girls, escorted by their 
father, the Rev. Mr. Owlet, and Mr. St. Leger. Mr. St. Leger had 
suddenly come into the possession of a nice properly in Ireland, by 


THE BACHELOR OP THE ALBAjq’Y. 


145 


the death of a distant relative, and he had jnst ariived at the Rosary 
to prosecute an old design of his upon the heart of Augusta Spread. 

“ 1 am acquainted,” said the dean, ” with that property, it lies en 
tirely, 1 think, in one of my parishes. What’s the name, Letty, of 
my benefice in Kilkenny?” ■ 

” Desartmore,” said Mrs Bedford, peevishly, for she was vexed, 
not so much at the clean’s ignorance of the very mines from which 
he derived his opulence, as at the frankness with which he owned it. 

” 1 hardly think it can all be in Desartmore, sir,” said St. Leger, 

for it is a straggling property, scattered over a district sixty miles 
in length ” 

Desartmore is sixty miles long— is it not, sir?” said Laura 
Smyly to the dean. 

” 1 only wish, my dear, it was as broad as it was long,” said the 
hearty dignitary, with that exceeding pleasantry which made the 
colossal abuses of his church attractive and comely in his peisun 

Mr. Spread had walked over to Far Niente expressly to see the 
bachelor A letler which he had received from Philip, written at 
the house of the Reverend Mr. Ramsay, in Cornwall, contained in- 
formation which he was anxious to communicate to his friend with- 
out loss of time. Drawing him to some distance from the rest of 
the company. Spread asked him had he forgotten the subject which 
he had commissioned him, about a week before, to investigate on 
his behalf. 

” JNo,” said the bachelor. 

” Well, we have not been idle. Do you happen to recollect a 
young lady who was at our house at Liverpool when you were with 
us last Chrisimas — a niece of Narrowsmith’s?” 

” The little girl who was brought in to make a fourteenth at din- 
ner?” 

” The same; we have ascertained that it was upon her part the 
advertisements addressed to a person of your name were inserted in 
the ‘ Times ’ ” ^ 

“You have!” said Barker, ironically. 

” You are not related to the Narrowsmiths, 1 believe,” continued 
Spread, not taking notice of Barker’s manner. 

“1 should think not,” said the bachelor, contemptuously. 

‘‘The fact is,” continued the ex-merchant, ‘‘ 1 thought it very 
unlikely that such could be the case; at the same time, there is no 
doubt of what 1 tell you; the advertiser is Miss Narrowsmilh — of 
course, it does not necessarily follow that you are the Mr. Barker 
she is in search of.” 

‘‘ Spread, you have discovered a mare’s nest,” replied the bacli- 
elor, triumphantly. ‘‘1 know more of the matter than you do; 1 
am the Mr. Barker referred to in the newspapers, and the advertiser 
is not Miss Narrowsmith, or any relation of the Narrowsmiths, nor 
a miss at all — you are wrong in every particular, totally and accu 
rately vvrong.” 

” But 1 have it from my son, who, I regret to say, has formed a 
most imprudent attachment to the young lady.” 

” But 1 have it from the young lady herself, and 1 am positive 
she never saw your sou m her life.” 


146 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


" Passing stranp^e!” saUl Spread; “there is some mystery in ail 
this. Who is the lady you speak ot?” 

“Mrs. Grace— the little widow — your sister-in-law’s governess; 
she turns out to be the daughter of an old friend of mine; by the 
bye, it was his picture which you saw one evening while I was con- 
fined to my bed.” 

“ What was his name?” 

“ Medlicott.” 

“Good Heaven!” cried Spread; “Medlicott was the name as- 
sumed by my partner’s brother; Mrs. Grace must be Grace Narrow- 
smith in disguise!” 

Barker scofied at the notion, ridiculed it, ridiculed Spread lor 
conceiving it, called it nonsense, said it was not only improbable, 
but impossible, declared the question lay in a nutshell, and was so 
positive and pugnacious, that his friend was not sorry when his 
daughter approached to remind him that it grew late, and that they 
had to walk home. 

Of course, a moment’s further conference that same evening with 
tlie daughter of his friend Raymond sufficed to convince even so 
skeptical a person as the bachelor that Spread was right, and that 
she was indeed the niece ot the miserly merchant, and the lady with 
whom Philip Spread was in love. He was vexed at finding that he 
ran the risk of being entangled ever so slightly with a family which 
he abhorred so utterl}’^ as. he did the Narrowsmiths; but what can’t 
be cured must be endured, as the old proverb has it, and besides, 
he was now in a situation which did not long permit his thoughts 
to flow in a disagreeable channel. 

The Spread party returned by moonlight along the banks of the 
sparkling river, by a meadow-path which led from Far Nienteto the 
Rosary; and the population of the latter villa speedily separated and 
sought their respective dormitories, up the noiseless stairs, and 
through the unresoundiug corridor. 

There was a bay-window commanding a lovely view of the 
Thames and the woods beyond it, which on summer evenings the 
Smyly girls seldom passed without lingering awhile, sometimes for 
half an hour, upon a small causeiise placed in its recess, as it were 
expressly to invite you to reverie, or predispose you to slumber. 
The prospect, however, was what generally enticed the iSmylys to 
tarry there. It was especially beautiful when a May moon was 
beaming; the difficult}’^ then was to tear yourself from the spot. 
With such a scene before your eyes, such a couch to rest on, such 
carpeting under your feet, such repose all around you, it was inir 
possible to conceive a pleasanter halting-place on our pilgrimage to 
the land of Nod, particularly with an Adelaide and Laura to whis- 
per and titter with, ten times pleasanter company, both or either, 
than half your regular beauties entered at Almacks. 

When they reached this favorite point on the night in question, 
Adelaide remarked that she did not feel sleepy.. 

“ Neither do 1,” said Laura. 

The words were scarcely uttered before they were both on the 
caxiseuse, and sar. gazing upon the silvered landscape and listening 
to the music of the stream. 

We are neither of us sleepy to-night,” said Adelaide, ‘ because 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAJ^Y. 147 

we have not walked to-day. 1 only walked round the garden with 
that dear little Mrs. Grace.” 

“"1 had nearly as long a walk as that,” said Laura; ” 1 w'alked 
round my uncle.” 

Adelaide’s laugh, though not much louder than the genius of the 
place licensed, was loud enough to prevent either girl from hearing 
the approach of Mr. Barker, who had also to pass the bay-window' 
on his route bedward. He might hap’e passed on undiscovered, but 
he pausea to consider the tableau vwant before him. Laura was 
sitting erect; Adelaide was partially recumbent, her head reclining 
on Laura’s shoulder, while one arm of the latter encircled her sis- 
ter’s waist. Their bright tresses were interwoven; their laces 
almost touched, and seemed to prattle together, even when their 
lips were still. 

What w'as all this to the bachelor of the Albany? Why did he 
pause to contemplate it? Was it that the power, which the poet 
describes as the delight of gods and men, was beginning to cast her 
dazzling spell ovjsr him? He nioved again: and either his step or 
his breathing w*as audible, for Adelaide glanced back over her 
shoulder, and detected his presence. The sisters rose together, 
smiled and courtesied; Mr. Barker bowed formally; but why did 
he not then pursue his way to his chamber? Ask the moon why 
she shone that night so mischievously brilliant? Ask the river why 
it rolled so musically? Ask the causeuse before the window, why 
it was large enough for three? Ask the sisters why they were botu 
so fascinating? Ask Laura Smyly, in particular, why she could 
not just as well, that evening, have enjoyed a moonlight on the 
Thames from the casement of her own bower, as from the bay-win- 
dow on the corridor? 

However, it is matter of history; the bachelor sat down, and 
passed with the two Smylys thirty of the most agreeable minutes 
of his life. Adelaide spoke little; the conversation was chiefly sup 
ported by Laura and the bachelor. It was sparkling and fanciful 
on her side, and shrewd and sensible on his: they amused and 
pleased one another equally , and when the clock of Twickenham 
church, striking the witching hour, gave them a broad hint that 
they had protracted theii sitting too long for the health of an in- 
valid, and the habits of the cottage of indolence. Barker retired to 
his chamber, and remembered, before sleep sealed his eyelids, an 
energetic expression wliich Mr. Spread had used one day in bis 
chambers at the Albany, to the effect, that a single love is worth a 
thousand friendships. 

The next morning he rose early, wrote a note to the dean, plead 
ing the calls of his parliamentary duties, and departed abruptly for 
town He took personal leave of nobody; as to ]\lrs. Grace, there 
is good reason to think that he never once thought of her, so much 
did either the cares of legislation, or some more interesting subject, 
preoccupy his mind. Mrs. Grace, however, had other friends who 
were not so negligent. The delight of the Spreads, wdien they 
ascertained her identity with Grace. Medlicott, was only equaled by 
their curiosity to learn her motives for disguising herself as she had 
done. This was easily explained. Compelled to rely upon her 
talents to obtain a livelihood, she had found upon several occasions 


148 ^ THE BACHELOR OE THE ALBANY. 

that her youth was an obstacle to her success as a teacher: and it 
had occurred to her to assume the ^arb of a widow, as being the 
demurest she could adopt, and that which was best calculated to 
produce an impression of some matronly experience and standing 
in the world. Disguise was not her object in the first instance, 
although she had been gratified to find that her borrowed weeds an- 
swered that puipose, too, in the most efficient manner. Her en- 
trance into a family closely connected with the Spreads was purely 
accidental; it was, however, a ioitunate accident, as it proved the 
means of discovering what she wanted so much—a friend and a 
protector. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

I thank thee for't; my shipwreck’s now no ill, 

Since I have here my father’s gift by will. 

. • • Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 

The Bachelor arrives at the Rosary— Conversation of Spread and 
Barker in a Tent — How Barker execrated the Grasshoppers— 
An important Arrival and a momentous Disclosure— Mr. Up- 
ton’s Opinion of colonial Judges, and Mr. St. Leger’s Remark 
on the’ Distribution of colonial Patronage— The Bachelor is 
thrust into three Situations of Trust and Difficulty by one Revo- 
lution of the Wheel of Fortune. 

As the time approached that had been fixed for the marriage of 
Elizabeth Spread, the probabilities of other marriages began to be 
much talked of; the Rosary was thronged with guests full as a bee- 
hive; and the arrival of the Smyly girls in the dean's phaeton, close- 
ly followed by the bachelor, gave employment to twenty idle and 
merry tongues. 

“ His name ought to be Petrarch Barker, not Peter,” said one. 

” Weddings make weddings,” said another. 

“ One fool makes many,” said Mark Upton. 

‘‘ Flattering to you, Mr. Owlet,” said St. Leger 

The early part of the morning passed in various light occupa- 
tions; the ladies had cards to direct, garlands to wea^e, a thousand 
gay and elegant nothings to attend to. One o’clock was fixed for 
an archery meeting, a favorite amusement at the Rosary. Upton 
established himself in ]\lr. Spread's study, and was soon immersed 
in his blue-books, particularly his own Report on Metropolitan 
Sewerage. Lord John inflicted himself upon J^aura Smyly, and 
gave her a detailed account ol his projected eremitical establish- 
ment, which, being also called a Laura, led to a series of equivoques 
by no means pleasing to the bachelor, who heard the words ” my 
Laura ” several times repeated, while Owlet at the same moment 
was boring him to death about the substitution of trial by ordeal for 
trial by jury. 

Laura, however, was as eager to escape from the scion of the 
house of Gonebyeas Barker could have desired; she adroitly availed 
herself of the first halt in his lordship’s fade discourse, and tripped 
out of the room, with a glance at the bachelor, as she flitted past 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 149 

him, in which there was wit and malice enough to demolish Oxford 
and all its works. 

Barker then withdrew to a marquee upon the lawn, where he was 
soon joined by Spread, and they sat dreamily chatting in the sunny 
shade upon the past, the present, and the tutuie. The bachelor was 
harassed a little by the grasshoppers, and pronounced a sweeping 
anathema upon the entire insect kingdom. Presently, the warbling 
of silver voices was heard, and was soon succeeded by the tripping 
of light feet. Spread’s eldest daughter and Laura Smyly passed 
close to (he door of the marquee on their way to the archery-ground. 

“ That is one of the cleverest and the best girls in England,” said 
Spread, as the flounce of Laura’s green silk dress brushed the 
bachelor’s foot, which just projected an inch beyond the tent. Bark- 
er made no answer; but he bore the touch of the green silk frock 
better than he bore the grasshoppers’ jumping. 

” She is not quite so young , as she looks,” continued Spread, as if 
talking to himself. ” Laura mugt be nearly thirty.” 

Barker f till said nothing, yet he was inwardly pleased to hear that 
there was not so great a disparity ot years between him and Laura 
as he had supposed. 

” She is a singular girl, it can’t be denied,” Spread still went on. 
” If ever she falls in love, it will be with her understanding, not her 
heart; that won’t do, Barker, that won’t do.” 

“But it will do— it’s the best way— there is an understanding, 
but a heart is a mere figure of speech,” cried the bachelor, pugna- 
ciously. He would have said more to the same effect, had he not 
observed a well-known twinkle in Spread’s eye, which told him he 
had already said more than was quite discreet. In fact, his friend 
had laid a trap, and fairly caught him in it. 

” Why, 1 confess,” said Spread, ” if Uco people should agree to 
love one another with their understandings, that might answer not 
so very badly.” 

A deputation now arrived to invite Mr. Barker to join the archers, 
who were, making the gieenwood ring with the gay clamors. He 
assented graciously, and was even prevailed on to bend a bow in his 
turn. Thrice, amid inextinguishable laughter, did the bachelor’s 
shaft pierce the outer edge of the target, technically called the 

peiticmt.’* Laura, with the vigor, grace, and dexterity of one of 
Spenser’s sylvan heroines, or Diana herself, sent her feathered dart 
into the center of the gold. The bachelor was pressed to try his luck 
again. He consented, and his arrow was found* lodged so close to 
Laura’s, that they made but one wound in the burnished canvas. 

‘‘ A certain aim he took,” cried St.'Leger, 

“ And loosened his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.” 

” Ah,” said Lord John, “1 see pretty plainly that my Laura is^ 
not the Laura for Barker.” 

While this was going on a servant came to acquaint Mr. Spread 
that a person desired to see him on urgent 'business. Spread went 
into the house, and there found a man of humble rank, honest coun- 
enance, meanly clothed, with only one arm, much sunburnt, and 
covered with dust as it he had traveled tar upon foot. Spread was 


loO THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 

not a little surprised to learn that he had been directei to him by 
the Rev. Mr. Ramsay, of Cornwall, and that his object was to pro- 
cure information respecting l\Iiss Narrowsmilh. 

“Who are you?” asked Mr. Spread. 

His surprise tvas great to find that he was the domestic vvho had 
accompanied Grace Narrowsmith to England, and who was belie\ed 
to have perishbd in the shipwreck. He had escaped, however, by 
attaching himself to some floating timber, which was flung upon 
the clifts at the distance of several miles from the spot where the 
vessel struck: his arm and one of his legs were fractured, and he 
was picked up, almost lifeless, by the peasantry of an adjedning 
village. From thence, by some humane interposition, he was re- 
moved to an infirmary in a neighboring town, where his arm was 
amputated, and his other wounds cured; but he had not been dis- 
charged many days before he caught a fever (then ragine in the 
wretched locality where his poverty had compelled to seek refuge), 
and thus, owing to this series of disasters, several months elapsed 
before he was in a condition to nmke any research after the young 
female who had been intrusted to his care. 

“ You were a servant of the late Mr. Medlicott,” saidMr. Spread, 
after the stranger had concluded the account of his misadventures. 

The sunburnt man replied in the affirmative. 

“ Are you aware of his connection with a family named Narrow- 
smith, at Liverpool?”* 

“ My late master, sir, was brother to Mr. Isaac Narrowsreith, the 
rich merchant.” 

“ How did it happen that he left no property? flis daughter, I 
have reason to believe, is totally destitute.” 

“ Her mother’s property (a large one) was settled upon her, but 
the title to it was disputed, and the courts of law at Bermudas de- 
cided against her claims.” 

‘ Did your master make a will?” 

“ He did, although he had little or nothing to bequeath; but he 
thought that the appointment of executors and guardians might, in 
any event, be some advantage or protection to his child. He made 
a will, sir, deposited it in my hands, and charged me, immediately 
after his decease, to . proceed to England with his daughter, to apply 
in the first instance to Mr. Narrowsmith Of Liverpool (his brother, as 
1 then learned for the first time); and in case he should not be liv- 
ing, or unwilling lo recognize the relationship, I was then to have 
recourse to another gentleman — the other executor — ” 

“His name?” demanded Spread, abruptly. 

“ Barker, sir— Mr. Peter Barker, the member of parliament.” 

‘ But what of the will?” demanded Spread; “is it forthcoming 
—or a copy?” 

‘ Elere is the original, sir,” said the man, producing from his 
pocket a little bundle of papers. 

Spread glanced over the document, saw the appointment of Isaac 
Narrowsmilh of Liverpool, and Peter Barker of the Albany, Lon- 
doi], as joint executors and guardians to Grace Medlicolt, the testa- 
tor’s only daughter; and thewdll seemed to have been duly witnessed 
and signed with the name, not of Medlicott, but Narrowsmith. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY, 151 

“ What papers are these?” he then asked, alluding to the other 
documents. 

One was a colonial newspaper, containing a brief report of the 
trial and cause of Montserrat and Medlicott Montserrat was the 
maiden name of tire lady whom Grace’s father had married. 

Spread rang the bell, ordered the man to be well taken care of, 
and, taking the will and tlie newspaper, proceeded to look for Mr. 
Upton, whom he found in the library. 

Upton rapidly perused the will, and pronounced it correct in 
form. 

” Then Barker is executor,” said Spread. 

“And guardian of the minor,” said Upton; “but is there any 
estate; has the lady any property?’* 

“ The contrary, Ifear; she had large expectations from her moth- 
er, but an adverse decision of the local courts at Bermudas has left 
her a pauper.” 

“ The decisions of those colonial courts are seldom worth a 
straw,” said Upton, who had a large share of the colonial appeal 
business; “the judges are, in nine cases out of ten, the refuse of 
the bar in England and Ireland.” 

“Not of Ireland, certainly,” said Mr. P.I.'Leger, w’ho happened 
to drop in at the moment; “ the Irish bar have a very small share 
of colonial preferment, with one ^ remarkable exception — Sierra 
Leone.” 

Upton laughed. But Spread was too full of matters of moment 
to suffer the conversation to be diverted into a new channel.^ 

“ Here,” contir.ued he, putting the newspaper into the solicitor’s 
hands, “ here is an abstract of the tiial in the cause in question; 1 
feel a deep interest in the fortunes of the young lady concerned; 
just cast your eye over the report.” 

Spread left the papers with Upton, who, having read them at- 
tentively, came to the conclusion (assuming the report to be sub- 
stantially correct) that the decision was clearly against the law and 
the merits of the case. 

“ She has only to appeal to the Privy Council,” he said; “the 
decree of the court at Bermudas will be reversed to a certainty, al- 
though the proceedings may be protracted, if the defendants are 
wealthy.” 

“ Wealthy!— the real defendant, 1 believe, will be Isaac Narrow- 
smith himself. The property in question went to his wife.” 

“Barker, then, must be the nominal appellant.” 

“ Barker!— of all men! — my poor Barker!” exclaimed Spread, as 
he left the library to communicate all this interesting intelligence to 
his wife. “ Only think of Barker being an executor, guardian of a 
minor, and plaintiff in a heavy appeal to the Privy Council— my 
poor Barker!” 

And Spread pitied the bachelor with all his heart, for fortune 
seemed now to be actually pelting him with trusts and bombarding 
him with obligations. 

flaving communicated the news to Mrs. Spread, he went in search 
of his eccentric friend, whom he found at the archery-ground, re- 
ceiving the congratulations of everybody upon his brilliant achieve- 
ment with the bow. lie called the bachelor aside, and they went 


THE BACHELOK OF THE ALBANY. 

together into a sequestered walk, between two old and stately hed ges 
of' yew and laurel. Spread began by apologizing with humorous 
gravity for interrupting his friend’s pastimes; he then proceeded to 
business, and informed Barker of the fair prospects which were be- 
ginning to dawn upon the young woman in whom they were both 
interested deeply, though for different reasons. The bachelor was 
exceedingly gratified. 

“I sincerely rejoice,” he said, “at the young lady’s good fort-, 
une; luckily she has a rich uncle, whose duty it will be to see that 
she is righted; the responsibility will rest upon him.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Spread, not without some hesitation, 
“1 apprehend it will rest upon you! The rich uncle is the very 
party wrongfully possessed of the orphan’s property— it will rest 
entirely upon you,” 

“ Upon me?” cried Barker, with surprise and anger. “ Why, 
how upon me?” 

“ By the will of the poor girl’s father — by the last will and testa 
meut of your old friend, you are — ” 

“ What am 1?” demanded the bachelor, pettishly. 

Bpread paused a moment, looked fixedly at him, and replied — 

“ Last December, Barker, when 1 visited you in the Albany, you 
portrayed my situation in life, coloring the picture somewhat fanci- 
fully ; permit me now to depict yours without exaggerating a single 
circumstance. In the first place you are executor of the will of 
your late friend, Raymond Medlicott, of Narrowsmith; sole exe- 
cutor, t might say, because old Isaac has, by his heartless conduct, 
virtually renounced. Secondly, you are nominated, by the same 
testament, to the sacred trust of guardianship to your friend’s daugh- 
ter, who is still in her minority. Thirdly, as the legal protector of 
her rights against all the world, but especially against the Narrow- 
smiths, you are, or will be in a day or two, plaintiff in an appeal to 
the Privy Council to reverse the decision of the colonial tribunals 
Ultimate success is probable; but, let me tell you, the Narrowsmiths 
will dispute every inch of ground: it will be a heavy suit, a very 
heavy one, depend upon it. Now, there is no shirking one of these 
serious obligations, and you must proceed with vigor upon my ac 
count as well as tor the sake of the girl. 1 have already informed 
you of Philip’s attachment; whether a pauper or an heiress, she is 
to be my daughter-in-law.” 

Barker kicked up the gravel of the walk with the toe of his boot; 
it was the only reply he made. 

“ Well, my friend,” continued Spread, laying his hand kindly on 
his shoulder, “ was 1 not right when I told you, that day in your 
chambers, that there is no living in society without taking one’s 
fair share of its cares and its duties? What say you now? Be frank. 
Was I not right?” 

“It would seem you were,” said Barker, in a subdued tone, kick- 
ing up the gravel again, but not so waspishly as before. 

“ 1 told you at the same time another truth,” continued Spread; 
“ and something prompts me just to whisper it again now. If man 
wanted a helpmate in a lot of unmixed happiness and perfect re- 
pose, how much more does he require one in his actual state of cer- 
tain toil and uncertain enjoyment? You have lived m heresy long 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHY. 


153 


enough, out of the congreation of Love, contrary to all his canons. 
Come, you must do penance, and be reconciled to the church. \ou 
see, 1 am reading you a homily. ‘ Woman,' says the wises^^of pro- 
fane writers, ‘ is the mistress of youth, the companion of middle 
age, and the nurse of our declining years.’ Yon are in the second 
predicament. Barker. You want, and I recommend you, ‘ a com- 
panion.' " 

“ Come, Spread, there’s no use in mincing the matter: you mean 
JMiss Laura Smyly.” 

“ 1 do, then— the girl with whom you exchanged watches at my 
house at Liverpool — who rescued your Madeira— who saved your 
life — the girl who carries her heart in her mind, and would love 
you after your own fashion, with a* remarkably sound and w'ell- 
regulated understanding.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool, 
wlien he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such 
shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in 
love. And such a man is Claudio . — Much Ado about Nothing. 

The Bachelor’s Proposal and Acceptance— How three Weddings 
were consolidated into one — State of the Rosary— What hap- 
pened to Mr. Owlet — How he got a Living and how soon he 
lost it—Mistakesof the Morning— Personal Hazaid of Mr. Bark- 
er— What kind of a Morning it was — How the Wedding 
affected Richmond— How Fulham felt it — Row the Bachelor 
behaved al the Crisis— How the Dean looked, and how Mr. 
Mooney said Amen — The Breakfast — How Barker acted as 
Husband and Father — Mrs. Briscoe’s last Attention— Conclu- 
sion. 

To the speech of Spread, which concluded the preceding chapter. 
Barker made no reply, but en remnclie he made that very evening 
a proposition of marriage to Laura Smyly. As the bachelor had 
long been agreeable to that young lady, who discerned the worth of 
his character through the distorted medium of his oddities, she 
accepted the offer of his hand understanding, and graciously 
consented to become Mrs. Peter Barker. Nothing remained then, 
but to fix the day for the ceremony, invite the excellent dean to 
perform it, and buy the license. 

As Dr. Bedford had been already engaged to tie the Gordian knot, 
for Elizabeth Spread and Mr. Owlet, it was determined, in a full 
session of the Spread parliament (which now comprised Mrs. Far- 
quhar and old Mrs. Briscoe), to consolidate the weddings, for the 
purpose of sparing the dean and Mr. Mooney as much professional 
trouble as possible. A not very distant day was agreed on, so as to 
reconcile, as far as practicable, the hiiste of lovers with the delays 
of dress-makers and the tardiness of tailors. The interval was 
filled up with a great deal of mirth and a great deal of business 
too. Barker had his parliamentary duties to attend to; and 
he also threw himself with a vigor that surprised everybody 
into the ^affairs which the guardianship of Grace Narrowsmith 


154 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAHT. 


involved him in. The Smyly girls were at Far IMiente, hut the 
Spreads insisted upon having Grace Narrowsmilh with themselves, 
and soon convinced her fliat she would cause Uiem only pain, by 
continuing to hold out against the addresses of their son. Philip 
was veiy pressing to have his marriage celebrated on the same day 
with his sister’s and Mr. Barker’s. Many people thought he ought 
to have waited tor the issue of the cause in which Grace was 
deeply concerned. But love is rapid, and law is proverbially the 
cohtrary. lie loved Grace when she had nothing either in posses 
sion or prospect; and as his resolution to marry her was independ- 
ent of the issue of the suit instituted on her behalf, there was no 
good reason why Uymen should be kept dancing attendance u})on 
Plutus. His piirents were of the same opinion. Their opposition 
to the union had long since 5 delded to the undoubted sincerity of 
their son’s affection; they had seen new and decisive proofs of 
Grace Karrowsmith’s sterling worth; she had every mental quality 
that could make her a desirable member of such a family; and the 
tact that she was the friend and protegee of Mr. Barker crowned all. 
Accordingly, it was ultimately determined that the three swains 
and the shepherdesses should pair off on the same morning. 

You may suppose the Rosary was a busy place for a few weeks. 
What fun and what ferment; what a hubbub among the Abigails 
and Mopsas: what running here, and running there, up and down, 
in and out, helter-skelter, and pell-mell! Night and day, there was 
something comical continually occurring; or if it was not comedy, 
it was just as good, for it set the whole house in a roar. Owlet 
was a large contributor to the general fund of merriment. 

We mentioned in the beginning of this history, that the minor 
canon was in expectation of a snug living of which a tractarian 
peeress, his friend and admirer, owned the advowson. Three days 
before the wedding he received the following note from his pa-* 
troness : 

“ Oldham Hall, Feast of St. Lawrence. 

“ My dear Mr. Owlet, — 1 have just seen in the newspapers 
the death of old Mr. Fowler, incumbent of the parish in Suffolk, 
which 1 have been so long anxious to bestow upon you. The poor 
old gentleman, it seems, died at Brighton. Write immediately to 
the church- warden, Mr. Grubb, acquaint him with your nomina 
tion, and inform him at what time it will be your convenience to 
go down to take possession in the usual form. Wishing you every 
joy in your approaching marriage, 1 remain, 

“ My dear Mr. Owlet, 

“ Yours, very sincerely, 

“ Matilda Owldenham. 

P.S. — You will find Mr. Grubb a good Catholic. Give him par- 
ticular directions about erecting the stone altar (which 1 have had 
executed), and the other alterations necessary to make the church 
fit for Christian worship. 

“ To the Rev. Bat Owlet, 

“ The Rosary, Richmond.” 

A comfortable living was a very agreeable present for Owlet to 
receive on the eve of his marriage, and it may be supposed he lost 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAis^Y. 155 

no lime in communicalint? with the Catholic ( li inch- warden. In 
the space of forty-eight hours he received the following reply, 
which was read at breakfast to all the assembled company: 

“ Fatfield ‘Rectory, Chickenham. 

“ Sir, — In the absence of Mr. Grubb, the church- warden, 1 beg 
to inform you that 1 have not departed this life, nor have 1 any 
present intention of doing so. As you are curious about the income 
of my benefice, and the condition of my glebe-house, 1 am happy 
to tell you that the former is a well paid seven hundred pounds, 
and the latter is the snuggest parsonage in the diocese. That 1 may 
enjoy these good things as long as possible (by the bye, my father 
lived to your favorite number, XC.), 1 take the best care of myself, 
and promise you 1 shall continue to do so, if on no othe’* account, 
to prevent you, or any other Popish priest, from introducing your 
mummeries into tnis good old Protestant Parish. Excuse this 
short letter, as 1 am going out with my dogs; and believe me. 

“ lour obedient servant, 

“ Timothy Fowler. ” 

This letter, read by Owlet himself, with all the simplicity of Par- 
son Adams, caused infinite merriment to the company, in which 
Spread had his full share, notwithstanding his interest in the tem- 
poral prosperity of his son-in-law. The living had not been reck- 
oned on, and accoidingly the disappointment made no change in 
the matrimonial arrangements. 

On the very morning of the wedding one of those incidents took 
place which could only have happened in such a house as the Ro- 
sary, and among such a company as was there assembled. 

At the point of day a question occurred to the mind ot Mr. 
Owlet, as to the canonical propriety of the hour fixed for the nup- 
tial ceremony, and he could not retrain going .straight to Lord John 
Yore, to state the perplexity he was in. He rose, intended to put on 
his dressing-gown, but put on his surplice by mistake, and, thus 
spectrally arrayed, issued from his chamber, glidec^ along the corri- 
dor, turned a corner, got into a strange lobby, and finally lost his 
reckoning altogether, and strayed about, unable even to retrace his 
steps to his own room. While he was wandering thus, it happened 
that Harriet, Mrs. Spread’s maid suddenly remembered some direc- 
tions respecting part of her mistress’s dress, which she feared she 
had neglected to attend to the evening before; and she instantly 
jumped up, and, in very nymph-like array, Hurried to Mi’s. Spread’s 
dressing-room, in doing so. Owlet unfortunately crossed her path 
at about ten yards’ distance. Harriet was near fainting — and, in- 
deed, she was to be excused for taking him for a spirit, inasmuch 
as, between his white garment, his pale visage, and his tall, spare 
figure, nothing in the fiesh could possibly have looked more 
ghostly. However, she only screamed, and ran into Mrs. Martin’s 
room for safety. Mrs. IMartin had no belief in apparations— she 
was tar too philosophical; she immediately concluded that Theo- 
dore was engaged in some new prank, at the expense ot Owlet and 
Lord John Tore; and, armed with the tasces ot authority, she has- 
tened, with but slight attention to her toilet, in search ot the deliu- 


156 THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBAKY. 

queot. Mrs. Briscoe, meanwhile, fancying that she heard Pico, the 
Italian greyhound, wheezing in an adjoining room, and thinking 
that a grain of niter in his milk would do the little quadruped good, 
was bustling (with her wonted vivacity at unseasonable hours) 
about this benevolent' office. Owlet saw her motions, and fearful 
of alarming her as he had already alarmed Harriet, he redoubled 
his diligence to regain his chamber, and, in doing so, made repeated 
assaults upon the door of Barker’s. The bachelor was at length 
roused, and rushed out in an excited state, to discover who the dis- 
turber of the peace was. It was still little more than darkness visi- 
ble. At one point however, there was a window; it was just at the 
head of a short staircase, and a place where two lines of bedrooms 
met at a right ancle. In front of the window there happened to 
stand a large folding screen. Mr. Barker peered down the stair- 
case, and saw the energetic Mrs. Martin, followed by the nervous 
Harriet, cautiously ascending it together, and, with instinctive pro- 
priety, withdrew behind the screen. Mrs. Martin advanced, until 
the bachelor, through a hole in the screen, saw her distinctly; and 
bepuzzled himself thinking what could have brought the school- 
mistress abroad at cock-crow. Mrs. Martin pursued her way, but 
in the direction of Barker’s room, so that he could not leave his 
concealment. In a few moments Mrs. Briscoe came up, and, de- 
scrying Owlet, the same feeling of delicacy which prompted Barker 
to seclude himself operated upon the old lady, and she popped into 
the same hiding-place. The screen, however, was folded in such a 
manner that she did not perceive her companion in retirement. 

But the quick ear of Mrs. Martin caught the rustling of Mrs. 
Briscoe’s night -gear; she was back to the spot in an instant, and, 
thrusting her lef t arm behind Barker’s side of the screen, she pulled 
him out by his dressing-gown into the corridor. Mrs. Martin’s 
movements were so brusque, that it was probably well tor the 
bachelor there was now enough of light to distinguish faces and 
figures. The exclamations and amazement of all parties may easily 
be imagined. Mrs. Martin stared at the bachelor, and asked his 
pardon; the bachelor extricated his dressing-gown, stared at Mrs. 
Martin, and made his escape to his room. 

“ Bless me!” cried Harriet, “there is somebody else behind the 
screen: I protest it’s Mrs. Briscoe!” 

“ Mrs. Briscoe!” cried the governess, drawing herself to her full 
height, and in her severest accents. 

“ Mr. Barker and Mrs. Briscoe!” cried Harriet. 

“And Mr. Owlet. 1 declare, in full canonicals!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Martin, turning round, and seeing the unfortunate minor canon 
close beside her, lost in wonder at what he beheld. 

The women soon reflected how apocalyptically they were arrayed, 
and the recollection soon dispersed them to their several rooms. 
There was inordinate laughing; it was as merry a bednning of a 
wedding-day as any in hymeneal history. 

But everything on thisoccasion was propitious. A lovelier, rosier, 
balmier morning never smiled upon a marriage, since that of Cupid 
and Psyche, in the parish church of Paphos, or the nuptials of Rose 
and Nightingale in the gardens of Gulistan. The roses, indeed, 
seemed to have expressly reserved themselves for the triple wedding. 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 157 

Wherever nature had flungj or art planted them, they were gushing 
into bloom witli one accord, followed by the other flowers of the 
floweriest of the months, blazoning the earth with charming hues, 
and impregnating the air with delicious odors. The fragrance of 
the garden mingled with the perfume of the fields; the roses and 
pinks vied with the bean-flowers and the smell of the new-mown 
hay for the prize of incense; the summer was insolent with youth 
and beauty, and, intoxicated with the sun’s flattery, flung her smiles 
and graces round about her, over the silver stream and along its 
enchanting borders, with the profusion of a youthful queen on her 
coronation-day. 

ISobody, however, thought of field and flowers at a moment so 
full of moral interest, not to speak of the extraordinary number of 
fine women assembled on this festive morning, who gave the eye 
enough to do. The spectacle of three lovely brides and fifteen charm- 
ing bride-maids is not a phenomenon to be witnessed every day. 
All Richmond went forth to see it, Fulham was wild with excite- 
ment, gnd Putney went quite beside itself. How the bells rang, 
how the horses pranced, how the handkerchiefs waved, how the 
eyes sparkled, the tongues prattled, and the hearts throbbed. But 
the observed of all observers were the Bachelor and his Bride — 
Philip and Grace, Elizabeth and her Owlet, seemed mere accessories 
to the principal figures in the scene. Barker bore himself gallantly; 
he had pulled dowii the system of his past life with his own hands, 
and he looked as proud as if he had demolished the fortress of an 
enemy. It was the pride of a wise inconsistency — the glory of a 
seasonable retirement from a position no longer tenable with ad- 
vantage or ease. 

The next most remarkable personage was the good Dean Bedford, 
so round and so reverend, 150 hearty, so courteous, so benevolent; 
you could not look at him and not be charitable to the church he 
belonged to: be beautified a deformed system, and made one feel 
kindly to sinecures and tender to pluralities. Supported by Mr. 
Mooney, he moved from the church-door to the altar, showering 
benedictory smiles upon all around him, and giving the English 
beholders of his voluminous person a magnificent conception of the 
church in Ireland, lie performed the nuptial service with a fervor 
and an unction beyond all praise; and the “ Amen ” of his butler 
was superb, without taking into consideration that it was, perhaps, 
the first time he had over pronounced the word, although a parish 
clerk of twenty years’ standing. 

Altogether, there was never a matrimonial knot more handsomely, 
as well as securely, tied; never was a bachelor metamorphosed into 
a married man with more eclat, amid so much acclamation, or sur- 
rounded by so much to make the transition a triumph. 

The breakfast at the Rosary was a banquet w'orthy of^ following 
a sacred rite solemnized in so distinguished a manner. *lt was in- 
tellectually and gastronomically perfect. Barker and Mrs. Harry 
Farquhar were reconciled to one another upon that occasion ; Spread 
suggested a libation of champagne to hallow it, but Barker (with a 
pleasantry which Mrs. Plarry perfectly understood) proposed 
Madeira. 

The events that followed are to be related in a tew words, Barker 


158 


THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. 


prosecuted the appeal to the Privy Council with almost malignant 
perseverance, and eventually wrung the fortune of Mrs. Philip 
Spread from the tenacious gripe of the Ilarpagon of Liverpool. 

In process of time crept little Spreads, young Owlets, and small 
Barkers into the world. Barker made a nervous husband, and 
rather a fidgety lather: but, on the whole, he supported marvelously 
well the multiplicity of cares and duties in which he was involved 
before lie reached his fiftieth year. The last responsibility was im- 
posed upon him by Mrs. Briscoe, who, never forgetting his gallantry 
at the railway station, left him a legacy of filly pounds, and ap- 
pointed him trustee for the fat Letty, to whom she bequeathed an 
'annuity ol a hundred a year. 


THE END 


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brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub, even the greasy kitcher. sink, will be 
as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove all we 
say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. 

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191 Harry Lorrequer. By (lharles 

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224 The Arundel Alotto. Alary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstej’^ 15 

226 Friendship. By“Ouida” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxiue. By “ Oui- 

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229 Alaid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Airs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

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231 Griffith Gaunt. Charles Reade 15 

232 Love and Aloney ; or, A Perilous 

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233 “ I Say No or. the Love-Letter 

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236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By‘‘Ouida” 20 

239 Signa. By ‘‘ Ouida ” 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

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242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of ‘‘ Ours.” First 

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243 Tom Burke of ” Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Alistake. By the author 

of ‘‘ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Aliss Tommy, and In a House- 

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246 A Fatal Dower. Bv the author 

of ” His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte AI. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Alarsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of ‘‘ Dora Thoi:iie ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con 
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252 A Sinless Secret. By ‘‘ Rita”. . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosinaer 10 

254 Tlie Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

255 The Alystery. By Airs. Henry 

Wood...- 16 

256 Air. Smith; A Part of His Life. 

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258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. (A 

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Dumas 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 
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Parti. By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. 

Part II. By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 15 

264 Pi6douche, A French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey — 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures. 

By William Black 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fa^iry Tale 

for a Laud-Baby. By the Rev. 
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267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The 

Miser's Treasure. By Mrs. 
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269 Lancaster’s Clioice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

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272 The Little Savage. By Captain 

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273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M- 
Betham Edwards. . 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte Mi 

Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By 

Florence Marryat (Mrs. Fran- 
cis Lean) 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
His Word. By W. E. Norris. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 

den 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the 

author of ” Dora Thorne ”... 10 
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285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

286 Deldee ; or, The Iron Hand, By 

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287 At War With Herself. By the 

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288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

the author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

True Light. By a ‘‘ Brutal 


Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By the author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author 

of ‘‘Dora Thorne” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin, By the 

atithor of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ”.. . 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A Woman’s War. By the author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. By the au- 

thor of ‘‘Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea. By the author 
of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. • By 

Hugh Conway 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death. By the author 
of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By th6 author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream. By the au- 
thor of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

Day. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of ‘‘ Dora 
Thorne’’ 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By 

R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By ‘‘ The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence ; or. Aline Rod- 

ney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller ■OQ 


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317 By Mead and Stream. Charles 

Gibbon 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Hiiman Nature. By 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 The Prodigals : And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

824 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

325 The Portent. By George Mac- 
donald .* 10 

826 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 
George Macdonald 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. First half. 20 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 
829 The Polish Jew. ByErckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or. Between Two 

Loves. By Blai’garet Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or. Scenes 

from the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
834 A Marriage of Convenience. By 
Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel.... 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

837 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
Including Some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

838 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers ; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “ The Duchess ” — 10 

843 The Talk of the Town. By 

James Payn 20 

844 “ The Wearing of the Green.” 

By Basil 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant — 20 

846 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir. . 10 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

From Post to Finish. A Racing 
^mance. By Hawley Smart 20 


NO. PRICK. 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of 

the Sea. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 2® 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith .10 

351 The House on the Moor. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward (iar- 

rett 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Leg- 

end of Monti ose. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris. The Princess Dago- 
mar of Poland. By Heinrich 


FelbermAnn 10 

356 A Good Hater. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper . 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- ’ 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 
■ unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

Pastor 20, 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 The Southern Star ; or. The Dia- 

mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 LucyCrofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

thor of “ His Wedded Wife 10 

373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret ; or. The 

Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon.. 20 

375 A Ride to Khiva. By Capt. Fred 

Burnaby, of the Royal Horse 
Guards SO 

376 The Crime of Christmas-Day. 

By the author of “ My Duc- 
ats and My Daughter 10 

■'agdalen Hepburn: A Story 
of the Scottish Reformation. 

By Mrs. Oliphant 20 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase. J. Fenhnore Cooper. . 20 

379 Home as E'ound. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.’’) By J. 
Feuimore Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll. J. Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Ai'dd 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. Capt. Fred Burnaby. 20 

385 The Headsman; or, TheAbbaye 

des Vignerons. .By J. Feui- 
more Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “La Petite Comt- 

esse.’’ By Octave P^euillet. . . XO 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband; or, Thi’ough 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?’’ 10 

389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas... 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess’’ 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Feuimore 

Cooper 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By 

Jules A^erne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonernent. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey '. 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or. The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Feuimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. 

By J. Feuimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside, By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 

ridge i 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ’’. 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel AVarren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay ; 20 

409 Roy’s AVife. By G. J AAHiyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 


NO. 

411 


412 

413 

414 


415 

416 

417 

418 

419 

420 

421 


422 

423 

424 


425 

426 

427 

428 

429 

430 

431 

432 

433 

434 

435 

436 

437 

437 


PRICK. 

A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 
lotte M. Bi-aerne, author of 

“Dora Thorne’’ 20 

Some One Else. By B..]\I. Croker 20 
Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.’’) By J. 

Feuimore Cooper 20 

The AVays of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Jack Tier ; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St, 
Valentine’s Day. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

St. Ron an ’s AVell. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

The Chainbearer ; or. The Little- 
p^age Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

The Redskins; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
Preca ution. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
The Sea-Lions; or. The Lost 
Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
Mercedes of Castile; or. The 
Voyage to Cathay. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper : 20 

The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 
Hunter. J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 
Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Tajdor 20 

The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 
Upmore.’’ R. D. Blackmore. 20 
Z4iro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

Boulderstone; or. New Men and 
Old Populations. By Wiliam 

Sime... 10 

A Bitter Reckoning. By the 
author of “By Crooked Paths’’ 10 
The Monikins. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

The AVitch’s Head, By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

My Sistef Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy June. 

By “ Ouida ” 10 

Wyllard’s AA’^eird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George Taylor..., 20 

Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 




THE SEASIDE. LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


' NO. PRICE. 

438 Found Out. Helen B. Mathers. 10 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens i... 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

441 A Sea Change. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of The Albany. .. 10 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. By 

Hall Caine 20 

446 Dame Durden. By “Rita” 20 

447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 


NO. - PRICE. 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgians 

M. Craik . 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 
Melville 20 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. By Charles Marvin. .. 10 


I 


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MUNRO’S RtIBLiO ATlONgf 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 


A SERIES OF 

THE MOST THRILLING DETECTIVE STORIES 

EVER PUBLISHED I 


The following books are now ready. Others of this series in 
' preparation. 


No. 1. OliD SLEUTH THE DETECTIVE. 

A dashing romance, detailing in graphic style the hair-breadth escapes and 
thrilling adventures of a veteran agent of the law. 


, ‘ No. ‘.i, THE KING OF THE DETECTIVES. 

In this story the shrewdness and cunning- of a master mind are delineated 
* in a fascinating manner. 


No. 3. OLD SLEUTH’S TRIUMPH. 

IN TWO HALVES— 10 CENTS BACH. 

The crowning triumph of the great detective’s active career is reached after 
undergoing many exciting perils and dangers. 


No. 4. UNDER A MILLION DISGUISES. 

The many subterfuges by which a detective tracks his game to justice are 
all described in a graphic manner in this great story. 


No. 5. NIGHT SCENES IN NEW YORK. 


An absorbing story of life after dark in the great metropolis. All the 
various features of metropolitan life — the places of amusement, 
high and low life among the night-hawks of Gotham, 
etc., are realistically described in this 
delightful story. 


The above works are for sale* by all newsdealers at 10 cents each, or 
will be sent to any address, postage paid, on receipt of 12 cents, by the 
publisher. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, ‘ 

P.O.Box 8751. 17 to '•Z7 Vandewatev Street, New York, 


MUNRO’S PUBL.ICATIONS, 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

4 

ORl>IIVARY RUITIOIV. 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
(P.O.Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. \ 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Editior 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, om 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by th. > 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

632 Maid, W'ife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres . 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt ‘ 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor.". 20 

1934 IVIrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid... 10 . 

• WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 


'tHU SEASIDE LtDilAUY. — Ordinary iSdivion. 

63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 1(? 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius .’ . 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS. 

? 26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Aud ley’s Secret. 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love • 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 2'' 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEAfHDE LTBEAnY.- Ordinary Ediiim. 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile •. ^20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh. 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part I.. 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon •. 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel * 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

J469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon). 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The iMistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor. 10 


THE SEASIDE LTBHAUT.— Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wutliering Heights 10 

438 Villette ' 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl. 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Yictorine ; or. Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story. 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife .* 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark , iQ 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story . . 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


I'HE SEASIDE LTDRARY: — Ordinary Edition. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter....' 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 Tlie Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 

. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. ~ 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Budge •. 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol * 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit-. 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers *. 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples lo 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OP “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn. 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or. True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 


THE hinAhUfE LTBRAHy.^unairuyry Edimm^ 


9ol The Sin of a Lifetime ^ 

1013 Lady Gwendoiine’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife m Name Only . = . - 2(? 

1044 Like No Other Love !(' 

1060 A Woman’s War : 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly o ..... . 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin....... . IG 

1081 A Bridge of Love., 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies ........I. 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea. 10 

" 1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin ..co 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring. 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-King ......... 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or. Under the Lilacs.. 10 

1357 Tne Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love. 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil. 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

i761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms, . 20 
1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress ot Arne ................. 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net 10 

ALEXANDFR DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants ; ...... 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy .... 10 

155 The Count of Monte-Cri»tovv<wt^‘i&^^ One Volume) 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 The Queen's Necklace. 20 


THE SEASIDE LTBRzUlY.- Ordinary Edition. 


173 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge. 20 

184 The Countess de Charuy 20 

188 Nanon 10 

193 Joseph Balsarao; or, Memoirs of a Physician 7. . . 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catherine Blum 10 

223 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

344 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

376 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or. Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 30 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

343 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol 1. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio. . . 10 

608 The Watchmaker... 20 

616 The Tw'o Dianas 20 

622 Audree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne(lst Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 20 

1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. Ill 30 


THE 


New York Fireside Companion. 

Essenlially a Paper for the Home Circle. 


PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 
living fiction writers. 

Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing ever published, and its spe- 
cialties are features peculiar to this journal. ^ 


A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
modiste, is printed in every number. 

The Answers to Correspondents contain reliable information on every con- 
ceivable subject. 


TERMS;— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one year, 
on receipt of $3: two copies for $5. Getters-up of clubs can afterward add 
single copies at $2.50 each. We will be responsible for remittances sent in 
Registered Letters or by Post-office Money Orders. Postage fi'ee. Specimen 
copies sent free. 


GEORGE MUNRO, ' Publisher, 


y 


P. 0. Box 3751. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE CELEBRATED 

SOEMER 


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FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exntbl- 
tion, 1876: Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
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American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
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The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
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leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-POCKET EDITION. 


LATEST ISSUES: 


20 


408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil Hay. 20 
42*2 IVeeaution. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
42^3 The Sea- Lions; or. The Lost Sealers. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile ; or, The VoyaBre 

to Cathay. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oalc-Openinsrs ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir Thom- 

as Upmore, Bart., M.P., Formerly 
known as “ Tommy Upmore.” R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

428 Z6ro: A Story of Monte Carlo. By 

Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 

429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and Old 

Populations. By William Sime. . 10 
431 A Bitter Reckoningr. By the author 
of ” By Crooked Paths ” 10 

The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address. postaRe pre- 
paid. by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for sin trie numbers. IT cents for special numbers, and 
i^cents for double munbers. Parties within reach of Newsdealers will please get the books 
tnrougn them and thus avoid paying extra for postage. Those wishing the Pocket Kdititm of 
I HK bKASiDK I.iimARY imjst be careful to mentlou the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary 
Edition will be sent. Address, 


432 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider Hag- 

gard .. 

433 M.y Sister Kate. B.y Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne,” 
and A Rainy June. By ” Ouida”.. 10 

434 Wyllard's Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg Castle. 

Bv George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. By Fanhv Lewald . 20 

4:18 Found Out. By Helen B. Mathers... 10 
4.19 Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

441 A Sea Change. By Flora L. Shaw. . . 20 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry I^ewes 20 

443 Tlie Batchelor of The Albany ... 10 


I’. O. Box .*{?51. 


4SE01tGE MI’NltO. Publisher, „ . 

17 to *27 Vniul€!\vjiier Street, New ^ oru. 













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